by Paul J. Willis
Hiking up Shadow Creek this morning,
we saw the moon caught shimmering
in the top of a lodgepole on the ridge.
Like dandelion seeds, you said.
We cupped our hands and blew,
and the moon dissolved and scattered
into a thousand stars, circling
the Sierra summits on the wind
and planting for us the golden weeds
of a new heaven, a new earth,
along the furrows of our steps.