Rooted in Green Mountain Piedmont,
Near winter-melt cataracts
And cloistered ephemeral pools,
A woman walks forest paths —
The dandelion her guide home.
The locals seek her sage advice
Over herbal infusions
And garlic-sautéed garden greens —
A feast simple and sacred,
Her prayer to the Great Divine.
Amid spiraling sweetgrass smoke,
She channels nature’s wisdom
To apprentices young and old —
Always one with the roots of
But now, with George at its threshold,
The Otherworld's veil unfolds …
So she puts affairs in order,
Counselled by the plant spirits
Her soul recognizes as kin.
Though an indeterminate time
Remains of her blessed Earth Walk,
Her teachings and love will scatter
In numerous directions —
Dandelion seeds on the wind.