On a wooded trail in Stokes
coming up from Tillman’s Ravine
small violets were grouped hovering
near the moss-covered, rock-edged walk.
They were so perfectly clustered
that we knelt to photograph those that looked related
to the perfection of the day’s temperature
and splintering light.
Laughing, we avoided those delicate, slender necks all day.
Now, snow falls and raw, biting ice
covers lichen and moss
sealing the Earth’s life
in a detention of season.
Alone, I look for remnants of violets.
Wisdom conveys their absence.
Truth does not want their presence,
but habit makes me search among the rock-edges
while I walk.