I’ll speak our names here,
to the lichen in these woods,
to remember us.

Quietly blooming
like sunsets, seashells, stacked clouds,
deep forest fungi.

Breaking the bleak day,
fungi, moss, and lichen bloom
in late November.

Yellow chanterelles,
simple as a century,
on this unwalked path.

My dog chose this path,
with surprise mushrooms growing
in a hollow tree.

The bright beginning
bursts out of the dead tree,
now alive again.

A woodpecker drum
fills the early spring forest
and scarlet elfcups.

Forest floor below,
woodpeckers fly overhead—
my ancestors, both.

Bouquet of splitgill
blooming from inside the tree,
pinned at the center.

What seems bleak to us,
the February forest,
of course, it is not.

A sunburst lichen
blooming in January
we walk and we breathe.

Consequential things—
the otherworld in this world,
learning the beauty.

Starry-skinned mushrooms —
an orange constellation
shining under snow.

From the undergrowth,
close to the surface and hum,
all forms of footsteps.

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

All this tender life,
the low hum underneath it,
snowbirds overhead.

Like a swimming fish—
the purple-toothed polypore,
in the forest’s depths.

The tender life of
a forest mushroom, or an
October flower.

In this still forest,
we listen to the river,
my dog smiles and walks.

Blooming on a log
just off the path we walk,
among ferns and sunlight.