Under the day star, our star, I walked the
mid-winter creekbed washed in afternoon’s
mild light. Last night’s ice still whitened hidden
pools, tenacious in the bank’s enduring
shade. These natural facts: Dry stones grinding,
clinking underfoot; the streamside velveted
with sudden, vivid moss–one artesian
seep weeping like an eye focused on the
distance far too long. We are vanished stars.
No matter how we wander, we are home.
— Elizabeth Dodd