Where are the gifts the druids left?
The ones who came barefoot last solstice
with cherry pits in their pockets
and woodsmoke in their hair.

Where is the yarn looped
like a promise around the elder stone,
unraveled by rain
but still holding the shape of a wish?

Where are the pennies
dropped into the earth as if the land were a fountain
and time a debt to be paid in copper?

Where are the wildflowers,
plucked, bundled, offered,
laid soft at the foot of the Whispering Knight
who has held his tongue for centuries
and still does not speak?

Where are the pebbles, the rings,
the ribbons, the seeds,
the notes on crumpled paper,
the drops of oil, the buttons and wreaths,
the braid of rope wrapped three times
widdershins?

They are under the nettles,
beneath the rook’s call,
in the hollow behind the king’s left heel,
pressed into lichen like a kiss.

They are with the stones,
and the stones dream everything.