The late Sunday light
falls in these confiding woods,
making blue shadows.

Belief starts over —
lights go out every day,
our hands left empty.

Three swans on the pond,
the November sun setting —
they love each other.

The long quiet hour,
we make our way to the woods
through the goldenrod.

Arms full of flowers,
teasels under the sun, moon—
bees in love with them.

Standing on this spot,
thinking of that other shore,
my mind can make it.

I’ll take these small things:
a pair of swans taking light,
us, taking it, too.

I see it in sleep:
the inky flowing river,
crushed velvet banks.

The sun finds its way
between tall velveted trees
coated with new snow.

The light is fleeting
these final days of the year,
haikus come in sleep.

Fragile and dreaming,
the unlikeliness of it—
you and me, here, now.

We could both dive in
and become silver with sun,
reflecting the trees.

The darkening marsh—
unfazed by the setting sun,
swans circle and dip.

Yesterday, three swans,
today, five in the cold marsh—
float, preen, feed, stretch, glow.

The glowing forest—
I keep my dreams to myself
as the sun goes down.

Fall woods are quiet,
geese congregate on the lake,
chickadees forage.

Green algae jewels
skimmed in through her lowered beak,
the only sound here.