Robins rushing out
from the woods during the snow —
oh, January.

Like buoyant notes found
with the greatest tenderness,
each tree snow-dusted.

Feed the birds first thing,
while the sky is still gray-dark,
clouds layered with cold.

Goldenrod will bloom
again along this cold path —
the sun on our backs.

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.

Every tree in it,
I’m lost in this old forest,
the taproot waits out.

Give it all away,
it’s the only thing you have,
give it all away.

December lights blurred —
the decision to go through
the in-between time.

The drive through town square,
bringing memory and hope —
to see family.

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

Day after solstice,
winter sky pulls over us,
cold clouds of all kinds.

There is only one —
one love, one triumph, one gone,
one book of haiku.

Ink like an anchor
sinks black into the deep black,
it can’t be talked out.

Up with the streetlamp,
lighting the morning snowflakes
like an aurora.

Tan on tan on tan,
the doe marches off to meet
two others waiting.

Consecrated blue
of the sky as the moon rose
behind the scotch pines.

I am uncertain,
I only know what I don’t —
I do know beauty.

Sun with me all day,
the full moon and Jupiter
sit with me tonight.

The complications —
(of propinquity and art)
he gave me my initials,
wood stained with black ink.