by Jim Farfaglia
In a Winter Forest
I love how my heart can still be moved:
fifty-seven years old,
having beaten through darkness and light –
yet it flutters anew meeting a startled doe,
then settles once more,
listening to the rhythm of a rambling brook.
It grows heavy finding a dying field mouse,
and melts – it’s melting still –
witnessing snow make way for a determined green.