By Elizabeth Wickland
I awoke to the dawn
on the shortest day of winter,
carried on light
as on water
luminous in the waves.
How is it that the sun
is a font, spilling over with life?
And where did I stumble
into favor that it would bathe me
even on these dark days?
I will swim in these lifewaters
and never tire, drink
and never find my fill.
Though shadows stalk the shore
they can never reach me
adrift on such a bright sea.
Elizabeth Wickland lives in Bozeman, Montana, cultivating as much beauty as she can with words, art, and garden beds. She writes for The Black Barn Online, and her work has been published by The Way Back to Ourselves, Calla Press, The Rabbit Room Poetry Substack, Bandersnatch Books, and others.