dried curls
of gray reindeer moss
crunch softly
underneath our boots . . .
no other sound, but breath
1st Place (tie)
Judge Marilyn Shoemaker Hazelton's comments:
...Next, we stand at the delicate edge of winter where air is crisper, and "reindeer moss" whispers beneath our feet. The color of this tundra is muted. Perhaps the light is also. In response to small, mysterious sounds framed by quiet, the breaths of those within the poem startle and deepen. And we have an opportunity to appreciate what we usually take for granted. Both poems center on absence and presence within our lives, and remind us how breath companions and consoles us with its beauty.
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