The river cuts through
the land, me — what’s forgotten
in that cold current.

Robert Motherwell
loved the thick black line: thrown, drawn—
coaxed out from hiding.

for Sylvia Plath

The finality,
the letter dropped in the box,
the line drawn and cut.

There’s a treasure here,
thought about and drawn by hand,
placed in sun to dry.

The path takes us to
the shoulders of the forest
where gentle vines grow.

What seems bleak to us,
the February forest,
of course, it is not.

I dreamed as a bird—
it’s the path I would choose
in my afterlife.

I’m awake, awake,
the doors and windows are open,
my hands out, palms up.

Geese take their places,
the river, over its banks—
the feel of Sunday.

My eyes are open,
I know my story, even
lost in this forest.

Sun wakes winter moss,
ice that will become spring pools
melts and reflects sky.

January thaw,
the forest swollen with melt,
wild yam seedpods float.

Fire in the distance,
you built it, keep it going —
mistakes light my way.

A sunburst lichen
blooming in January
we walk and we breathe.

Green stars on the ground—
moss blooming in late winter
at the full river.

Heavy-heartedness,
it’s quite a thing to carry
through each day, through life.

Memorialize
the beauty I tried to find,
my mistakes, and me.

I miss the seasons,
the life I was just starting,
breath in my city.

Small lights burn for you,
small songs are sung by songbirds
to remember you.

Somehow, it comes back—
hope, lost in the winter bleak,
again and again.