Thicket, tangled winter barren,
through which small birds pass with ease.
I cannot pass through my own thicket,
its branches every which way crossing
bending, diving, reaching,
creating celestial star tracks
floating grains of blown ash
from fire, pyre, or soul
burning days behind,
wandering from time into eternity.
Ash Wednesday – February 10, 2016
Portland, Oregon
My photo is of our snowberry (symphoricarpos) in winter.
In Cascadia 
Always loved the word. Thicket.
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Agreed. I’ve used it before in my limited blogging life. – see “Advent Vigilance” from December 3, 2015.
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I like the words you use in general, tou seem to like the same as me
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Perhaps that is why I am drawn to your site. Your writing is complex, sometimes difficult, but always thought provoking. I am learning how to read other poets now that I’m letting other poets read me. I’ve resisted this for many years. I am beginning to be inspired by them, and you are one.
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Tom, i did the same, such fear then strange relief. I’m glad that’s what you are doing. It is true, we’re both drawn to the complex, because we think more as a result♡
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