Photo by Ian Wagg
Where It Comes From
Carol Mikoda
It may well up from a leaf-clogged spring in the woods,
or filter through the many needles beneath white pines.
It may hitch a ride on a snowflake crossing a windy
field or seep from the overtones of the hanging chimes.
It may ripple away from the boats rocking at the marina,
streaming lightly on the surface of the water, or slide
from under the shadows of the deer crossing the road
at dusk. It may bleed from the melting candle
that lights the dinner table. It may echo
behind wise words and laughter, or perhaps hope
just unfolds as though from the emergent butterflies
of our delicious dreams.
Carol Mikoda
It may well up from a leaf-clogged spring in the woods,
or filter through the many needles beneath white pines.
It may hitch a ride on a snowflake crossing a windy
field or seep from the overtones of the hanging chimes.
It may ripple away from the boats rocking at the marina,
streaming lightly on the surface of the water, or slide
from under the shadows of the deer crossing the road
at dusk. It may bleed from the melting candle
that lights the dinner table. It may echo
behind wise words and laughter, or perhaps hope
just unfolds as though from the emergent butterflies
of our delicious dreams.