Winterlight

There is no light so resonant
as maplelight on November afternoons
when late sun strikes with everything he has 
through storm-rinsed blue. 
Unless it be the winter skyline—
tangerine and lemon all day at the edge of iron
in the far and colorful country beyond the mountains. 

I was on my way to some necessary task.
And now I am watching the squirrels
roll up maplelight leaf by leaf,
stuff it in their mouths and run away with it.
And this is my task now too, not quite
self-appointed: to partake of light
as long as my heart and the beating day allow.

Here’s a little rambling meditation on the poem. Or that starts from the poem, anyway:

The book I mention is this one, which I cannot possibly recommend highly enough. It will not be the gamechanger for everyone that it is for me, but it is a deeply resonant and beautiful cup of tea, from which anyone might drink much of value.