Under the weather
so far this year in all ways—
I miss the forest.

All windows and doors—
memory, birds in a tree,
each day flying through.

The moving forward—
crows fly in against pink sky
to roost and then back.

The cold blue morning
breaks into sun before noon,
birds wake up and sing.

Little universe
of blue-shadowed morning snow,
of an open book.

Let me set it free:
begin, begin, begin, be,
begin, begin, be.

Cold on top of cold,
the sparrows squall over seeds,
snow heaped everywhere.

On this plot of land
I’ve tried to see how things work:
birds opening seeds.

The bright starry sky,
I don’t see it anymore:
patience for my mind.

Light breaks without warmth
under the cold canopy
of locked blue shadows.

The breaking away,
transcending the cold moment,
the view from above.

Snow came in last night,
I worry about the birds,
put seed out first thing.

We are here breathing
in the January bleak,
two swans in the reeds.

Remembering June
on a day of snow falling
in January.

Camaraderie,
we dove in like it’s a lake
till both of our lives changed.

Valleys behind me,
memorialized beaches —
gardens still to come.

Spirits and wishes,
falling at my feet each day,
sitting beside me.

Under glass, under
the feel of January,
birds somewhere, flying.

My box of fortunes,
just things I wanted to hear
to create belief.

She craves the music—
moon over St. Cecelia,
saint of a cold month.