This thin place and time,
These in-between weeks,
Thin as the Celts called it,
Closer than usual to another reality
Where spirits and memories dwell.
You feel it walking the woods
In drifting mists and cold rain on old snow,
Between seasons, between worlds,
Between growth and decay, life and death,
The limbo of early December.
So often our mood matches the natural world,
All day the bare trees touch each other
As I walk this thin place
Of the ghosted, dripping woods.
I see no one, the dead going with me.
