Sonja is hunting for dog bane. She prizes
it for its fibers, and tells me never to feed it
to dogs. She keeps her eye out for plants
that might yield dyes for the wool she will spin
into soft yarns. We laugh at the burrs
that stick to our clothes. She shows me how
she felts the holes that happen when her scarf
gets snagged. She calls the patches polka dots.
The sun and blue sky disappear as we eat
sandwiches of peanut butter and raw honey.
We don’t notice. We have cocoa and raspberries
and miles to explore, and it’s close enough
to perfect for both of us right now.
As we push through the brush, the creek
sings happy January songs, and I drink
in the winter colors, feeling lucky and blessed.