Approaching Equinox Poem by Jean Renwick

Darkened orange, black and white;
the crumbled remains of our campfire
lit on Friday night –
By Saturday morning a change in the air.

The cold which draws
a soul into isolation
hangs now in fresh, pregnant mist,
swollen with renewed life on the cusp of revelation.

Our subdued communion by the flames
is a shadow dispersed by the dawn breeze
and a new day’s lively action.

The air had changed, but still –
(the damp earth hides secrets under a dry
scattering of twigs and leaves) –
these early signs we sense, won’t emerge for another moon.