Along the river
our steps are matched by these three
silent winter swans.

For Jerry

This time of bad news,
the creek takes another form
in the fading light.

This time of bad news,
white-tailed deer stick together,
wait for us to pass.

At home in these woods —
the late day, blue-shadowed snow
displaces worry.

In these frail shadows
birds congregate and chatter
in my mother’s yard.

The perfect snowflake
on my dog’s black fur eye patch —
the endless forests.

Still and Sunday-like,
ice locks parts of the river,
animals walk it.

The moon replaced Mars
in the cold overnight sky —
silence with silence.

Three Trumpeter swans
glide on the frozen river,
chat to each other.

It’s walking the path—
happiness doesn’t begin,
it just is, is, is.

Ginkgo in winter,
robins looping all around,
sun setting silent.

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

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

Forest trees creaking,
one Carolina wren sings,
antlered deer walk through.

Sun wakes winter moss,
ice that will become spring pools
melts and reflects sky.

These snowy Sundays,
pulling meaning from blank skies,
solemn, leafless trees.

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

The color of trees,
first one deer, then the other,
leave tracks in the snow.

The first snow falling,
ribs and bones of trees revealed,
the nests abandoned.

Tender perfect things,
form and disappear, re-form,
beautiful, each time.