the sister sycamores were waiting
in the wood this afternoon,
their bare white arms shining
against the clear blue sky of the new year
down below us the brook chattered
as it rounded a bend, telling
the smooth white stones of its bed
how glad it was to be once more
free and flowing under the warming sun
behind a scrim of saplings moss glowed green
on a shelf of weathered limestone,
and great pale ears of faerie fungus
marched along the trunk of a fallen tree,
drawing me from the path for a moment
for a better view — and i knew all this
had been waiting, somehow, to be seen
