The brook slides through icy woods.
Snow crawls up to the edges
to peer over, doesn’t fall in.
Rocks hunch under little glass hoods.
Branches hang into the water
wearing hoops skirts of ice.
The water snakes between rocks,
under ice fans, over little falls.
It has come from somewhere,
goes somewhere,
but now
it is here, inviting me to be here,
just here.

What has happened, accepted.
What is, released.
What shall be, allowed.

One ice crystal,
steady above the water,
its little fingers
pointing at everything.

Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
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