Lichen at the knots,
wishes could be written here —
paper birch in spring.

Light fills the soft moss —
it becomes monumental
on the ancient branch.

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

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

My dog under a
tree holding on to its leaves —
my birthday today.

What would I become
if I laid down by this tree?
Sun, teaching me things.

How to save this bird?
Every dark cloud after us,
danger everywhere.

The monument bones—
a tree impossibly smooth,
scrubbed by the sand dune.

Next to its dead mate,
the silent mourning goose sits,
just as spring begins.

Goldfinches lit up,
changing color as I walk,
their song is yellow.

Remember that day,
it wasn’t so long ago,
when all was not lost.

Like skeins, veins, a shawl,
blackened bark breaking apart—
smooth skin underneath.

The beaver sculpture
left beside the fallen tree
at the river’s edge.

For the things I love
I’ll write poems tied to strings—
hang them from this tree.

October sun—
warm trees let go of warm leaves,
the light is yellow.

Taking the deer path,
deep in the goldenrod field,
trees, arms full of leaves.

The smell of the earth—
storm coming cuts our walk short,
vesper sparrows sing.