a map of water

water inspiration from the winged moon

rock pool. spring well. elven pond. the skeletons of leaves float last years memories. the sunlight mirrors twist their reflection. water like an unstrung bow curves the flood to meet me. the seals in the ocean signal the mountains to loose their water. return to salt.

the velvet almanac entry 31

today we are looking back at some amazing water soaked poetry from previous chapters of the winged moon.

In the late afternoon the water is 
openly alive, half pond full 
forest, the fish silver clouds shadow 
the lily pads. Taut stand the hills 
broad-shouldered
and green, their penumbra 
thick as molasses. The water lilies 
swim as
slivers of moon and I say
to you: look at the silver fish they swim 
as though they are the pond. 

water lilies sanjana krishnan 
the winged moon 'nature as a muse' chapter

ANNI RANNISTO FEATURED IN THE WINGED MOON PASSAGE CHAPTER

Dawn breaks the spell of a thousand winters
and it is said that the river remembers
the bedrock of collision
the murmuration of birds above crumpled folds
the waking of it all.
Here is the edge of the everlasting world, a view,
and the warm trickling mist of morning sticks like breath
lips that reach for the river.
O precious life,
the smell of wet stone and hands of lichen silk
grounding cedar scent, here is our home
and under our tread a prayer
dawn moving like a promise
euphonious wings of silence
lingering.
Precious life pray to the emerging water
that each drop is the mountain
that its summit is a temple
that nothing is nearer
to the gate.

[Sangaku Shinko] Agrene Bouwman
the winged moon 'nature as a muse' chapter

BRENDAN CONSTANDINE IN THE NATURE AS A MUSE CHAPTER

“Hm! Call us not weeds— We are flowers of the sea.”
-A.B. Hervey

The tide gives, and takes
and in first light the rock pools
squint with cockles and clams.
I walk the tideline,
gather sea lettuce from bright green beds,
slippery fronds of bladderwrack
bind the rocks, Irish sea moss slides past
my knuckles like brown corduroy.
I tally the wind, clip
harvest above the holdfast, but

what does the tide
think of me, washing and arranging
collecting scrap
to press between the lips
like flowers in the pages of a book.

seaweed Damon Hubbs  
the winged moon 'portrait' chapter

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