We walk the river,
a bufflehead swims and dives,
we find trees chewed down.

Sunrise behind clouds,
the shortest day of the year,
light because of dark.

Day after solstice,
we creep back towards the light,
the seed in our minds.

A bittersweet bloom,
some of the only color
on this cold, grey day.

The last light of day,
anointed in this forest,
your absence, your smile.

Meaning is somewhere:
rearranged every day,
sometimes known, sometimes…

Consequential things—
the otherworld in this world,
learning the beauty.

We go in again,
changed by it every time:
proof of life, so close.

In my hands then gone,
these stars that fell overnight,
falling all day long.

The loops and chatters—
sky and trees full of Robins,
we enter their woods.

Not a moment lost,
voices never forgotten,
life beyond living.

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

Creek changed by beaver,
now still enough to reflect
above the new dam.

Mackerel skies all day,
like a sheet of paper, drawn
steadfast, defiant.

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

The geese break their V
into two Vs over us,
wings the only sound.

Floating and honking,
one hundred forty three geese
make everywhere home.

Sun turned the room pink,
rising above the treeline,
snowflakes form in air.

Attention given—
caring for these smallest things,
the hope in beauty.

Memory and light
meet at dusk on this still lake,
maybe it’s prayer.