Above Arcadia, cerulean blue
and dancing light of distant suns.
Snowfield glistens. The silence is fathomless.

A single narrow column of white smoke
rises into the cedars, nature's night
calligraphy backlit in moonlight,
the silver orb just touching the high branches.

The sky seems eternal here in high winter,
gentle locking time when earth brings
the ancient spirits in for slumber
and the air, sharp and fresh,
betokens a purity beyond all seasons.

Stepping lightly, I walk down the hill from the cedar wood,
footsteps crackling in the crusted snow,
toward the small white house where you are waiting in silence
by the fire, where we shall embrace,
star spun, winter borne, moon children come home.
This is my fondest memory of Dahlia.

~ Ryokan Lee Ferrell

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