Snapdragons hold on,
magenta in November,
nearly December.

Thirty bulbs planted —
everyone taking cover
before the first snow.

The wind comes in cold,
I’ve got a sadness lurking —
Mute swans preen and preen.

The air’s been let out,
hardly any birdsong heard,
the bare bones of earth show.

November sun breaks
weakly on the cold river —
everything changes.

Sunlight on the floor
is astounding on its own —
we forgive, forget.

Persephone sleeps,
she understands the darkness
and becomes the seed.

The blue moon shines,
wild dogs climb the pyramids —
all of us below.

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

Standing under sun,
she leans on her walking stick,
her lambs crunch the grass.

All good or nothing —
thinking of the warm wheat field,
the sower’s good seeds.

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

The bright morning moon
hangs above my mother’s house,
maples hold their leaves.

Cloudy after work —
the song sparrow not singing,
and we keep trying.

Young deer listening —
ears alert, crunching acorns,
cold coming on quick.

Antlers kept above,
he swam across the river
and disappeared fast.

Branches hold the moon —
geese call and fill the whole sky
with sounds of leaving.

Unbothered by us,
geese congregate riverside,
preening with shadows.

Clouds like a Sunday
pull over us as we walk,
criss-crossed in the sky.

Each one an arrow,
seven geese honk in a V —
a world of their own.