Everything is soft
on the forest floor — alive
in December light.

From oblivion
come the broke open seedhusks
on dark forest floors.

Do you remember
the long walk on pine needles—
the soft tender life?

All the small jewels
under the song of the thrush,
sleeping under stars.

Just out of the ground,
spinning like a galaxy
of woodpecker wings.

Mutual flourishing—
coral mushroom’s crowns and arms,
growing in the dark.

Like skeins, veins, a shawl,
blackened bark breaking apart—
smooth skin underneath.

Maybe crows called here,
coyotes might have passed by—
fresh pinecone in spring.

A Red Admiral
finds light on the trail with us,
woods full of birdsong.

Twin century trees,
one falls before the other,
lies like a shadow.