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

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

Flat against the frost,
my dog and his nose walking —
lichen blooms from trees.

A cold winter bloom,
sunburst lichen under snow —
geese creak in the sky.

Sunburst lichen grows
on the bleached white island rocks —
sun drawing out sun.

Its own universe,
green lichen glows on a rock.
unlike a named thing.

The woods goes about
its business of loveliness
regardless of us.

The choice is just this:
it’s only to love this place,
sky in the river.

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

I move, you don’t see,
slowly each day on this rock,
it’s how life proceeds.

A brow or an arch,
gold dust lichen blooms all year
like a crown of sun.

I didn’t see it,
the stardust that’s everywhere,
the endless chances.

Lichen under moss
growing for thousands of years
here by the river.

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

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

Lichen growing gold,
the shape of a butterfly—
on top of this dune.

Am I in the stars,
the birds calling, tree to tree,
the sun on this moss?

Spring frogs are singing,
the forest is waking up,
we walk and listen.

Branches on the ground,
lined up after the ice storm,
to be burned, ground up.

A lichen bracelet,
a sheet of birchbark paper,
specked with gold stardust.