At home in these woods —
the late day, blue-shadowed snow
displaces worry.

In these frail shadows
birds congregate and chatter
in my mother’s yard.

The perfect snowflake
on my dog’s black fur eye patch —
the endless forests.

Things become undone,
my mind rests in the blue sky —
undone things become.

The winter forest,
light escapes the bare-limbed trees
bloodroot underground.

Seven-below moon —
I’m small, cold underneath it
in the blue morning.

This small universe
has its own kraft paper moon,
cut paper mountains.

Still and Sunday-like,
ice locks parts of the river,
animals walk it.

The moon replaced Mars
in the cold overnight sky —
silence with silence.

Three Trumpeter swans
glide on the frozen river,
chat to each other.

For David Lynch

The morning ether
rises above the treeline —
I’m lost in that dark.

We look for the light:
the brindle cat or new bloom,
heartbeat companions.

In kitchens and streets
we adjust to time travel —
black and white, color.

In my grandma’s house,
my dad sits with a slight smile,
in the old photo.

These, too much to bear,
the months of the cold hard crack,
freezing, re-freezing.

She thinks like magic —
she remembers her past selves
and keeps them all close.

Woodpecker feathers —
a pair, each dressed with eight full moons,
on the forest floor.

Doorways and windows,
retreating and advancing —
sometimes passing through.

There but for the grace
of place, time, circumstance, and
recklessness of luck.

The arrow turning
sideways and also straight through —
always, the trying.