New Year

The rains come lightly;
soft little fingers.
Outside, I can hear them on the woodpile, just barely
those cold little touches on my face.

The forest breathes,
speaks quiet words of fog all around me
as it has done for some time.

And I, small and cold
a decade older,
stronger, listen to it,
sniff at the mixing of water and tree.

A blue moon overhead, invisible through the rain
and I ache, and think of women and of animals
of time
of love
of rainwater touches and the mist
that will rise up tomorrow through the trees.

2009