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.