Patricia Wallace Jones 

Winter Finding

I have loved this season since birth
or before--
the haunting air and angle of light,
pipe and flute, the flash of dance
in a shedding moon.

I see ones the others can’t,
old beloveds gathering to drink,
their shadows circled in shades of shade,
the flicker of fire and billow of silk.

Across the river I hear rhymed songs,
ancient runes perfectly chanted
in dying grass and balanced light,
the thinnest veil at autumn’s turn.