Johanne Renbeck


We are tender guests in the
light of the moon, visitors
in the wild world that long
ago we knew, when we heard
what owls said in hollow
places, when we read the
future in the bark of trees,
when star stories rose and
wheeled across the entirety of

We are visitors, our shadows
cast on dark foundation walls,
strangers yearning to sprawl
across the undulating field,
to taste cold snow,
to know.
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