Sprinkles of snow in the spruce woods,

night-lights that ripple and whisper

 

in thickets of larch and pine.

In the axils of upper leaves

 

your white star-like corolla

a soothment for wounds.

 

You are good for clarity of mind –

repeating your name at night

 

in periods of drought

renders the spirit receptive.

 

Somewhere close at hand

you are hiding until I find you:

 

a remedy for solitude

a prickle of white in the wood.