Which-a-way, O Soul, this-a-year?   
Which way leads to the clearing,
which to the thicket of thorn and nettle?
Not all the same, not all these falling years
lined with green shoots and golden spinning leaves. 
Put on your coat, O Soul, your dark down layers.
Open the door, for she comes and she waits.
Step to the days, past the lighted trees and frozen angels.
Here now the green shoots,
there the fresh leaves and flowers of spring,
here the lush and fragrant stilling heat,
there the golden spilling leaves
in pools of ruffled water. 
Look up, O Soul, awaken!
She comes again, clothed in night,
at her feet the path, before her gaze the wintry fields.
Which-a-way, O Soul, this-a-year?

Seattle, Washington – December 2011