Here and then they’re gone,
these things aren’t really mine,
like stars in my hands.

Wabi sabi: impermanent

Last night of April,
dreams covered in green lichen,
everything blooming.

Clouds in the river,
even in early springtime,
lonely for springtime.

The deer on her path,
the blue heron on his pond,
dusk comes while we walk.

We circle the lake—
Robins hop from branch to branch,
willows glow yellow.

Up close to his call,
mourning dove on my front porch—
he has had his say.

April is my month—
it's the month of poetry,
belief, rewarded.

Let's meet in the creek—
they both say from either side,
lonely reflections.

Soft gray and blue-edged,
two left behind overnight—
lost feathers in spring.

Everything alive—
we move through in amazement,
even in the rain.

Lone wood violet,
I think about Jane Kenyon—
springtime loneliness.

Sun on the spring woods,
Mourning Cloaks find each other,
the rivulet flows.

Take me for granted,
covering this rock in green—
my soft gentleness.