Trees, November

Trees stand leafless
     in the falling cold.
          They do not fret.
               They know.

Geese fly over, stopping,
     some, to float the pond,
          then leave again.
               They know.

The little brook flows down,
     now strong, now slow,
          but flowing down
               and down.

You do not need to know
     how wisdom works,
          or how they understand,
               but only what

you, too,
     in all your rising darkness,
          and in your doubt,
               your long unknowing,

     a gravity, a drawing in,
          a voice inviting,

Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light

November 9, 2020

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