The view is just beyond the ridge. It is sunny, the snow not deep. Your body carries the true angels:
the mottled shade
the beams breaking through needle and snag
he understory sighing along your steps
the affirming cadence
memories lighten loosen lift
and meander through the mind, maybe.
The long legal line
of faulty patriarchs — unshaven, bare foot
their walk and edicts
only true on smooth stone.
The mothers are among
the trees, open hands
making men from memories
that gazed too long at history and are restored to sight
through shadows and gusts
on the snowy slant.
About the Creator
T Gale
T Gale is a Gen X mystic admiring the stars from the confluence of three rivers. When not occasionally summoning the mists of the Salish Sea, she crafts incantations in a cave with two bears.
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