A sail of fresh seeds
ready to be blown with wind,
I’m pulling for it.

Silver seedpods twist
open and float like stopped boats,
seeds sail on the wind.

It seems life is long,
the decision to keep walking,
the second guesses.

The full moon still hangs—
I look out on the morning,
crows follow their path.

Clouds skip above us
like the sails of floating ships,
blown open with wind.

Here to wait it out,
the first ones back for springtime,
two red-winged blackbirds.

Moss growing on moss,
stitched like embroidery thread
to the fallen tree.

The moss draws the light,
sun finds it in the forest,
willing and able.

Their rough passages,
my automatic drawings
remind me of ships.

Lichen under moss
growing for thousands of years
here by the river.

The beautiful things
that happen every day,
most days we miss them.

Red-winged blackbirds sing
here at the heart of the world,
among the tall trees.

In my lost city,
I wanted to find beauty,
my life, just begun.

The dreams that I had,
setting off over the lake,
racing the sunset.

I move them around
to follow the sun all day,
the winter flowers.

Tender to tender—
we walked today in the cold,
now dreaming of it.

My disquiet mind,
drawn with fast, elegant lines,
tilted in my hands.

Am I enlightened,
I walk off into each night,
born new each morning.

The day we searched for
Lady’s slippers in the woods,
warmth rose with their heads.

The constellation
walks across the page like sky,
yet to find a name.