(Background photo by: Jan Curtis)


Seeking the holy
I wander the wilderness;
my fingers are numb
from clutching my gift.

My fellow pilgrims—
the white fox, the raven—
fall silently into step.
At night the trees anchor the polestar.
Thoughts tinkle in the starlight;
we navigate by dreams.

This is the place
where the reindeer ebb and flow
in silvery throb,
where the pregnant herd—
through freeze and thaw
and the torture of insects—
thrives on endurance.

On the borderlands
roots bubble and toil
birthing rapturous landscapes.

The sky spews colour
in heavenly aurora,
ribbon upon ribbon of magical light
spilling into our cups.

Mystery is the norm here;
domesticity ices and cracks
and falls into the snow
creating fantastical designs.

The Angel who welcomes us
is dressed in furs
and speaks with an accent.
He honours my offering
with a cryptic salutation.

The wind bending the trees
blows through the wild places
of my soul.
I send myself south,
returning to my life
gravid with blessing.

Nora Leonard, September 2002