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.