In this otherworld,
the path is deliberate—
all is forgiven.

All of spring is here:
the slow rejuvenation
of the forest pond.

Under the gray sky,
gray mourning doves start spring calls
with reedy voices.

Killdeer here calling
as dusk comes at the river,
trees regard us well.

Leaving the day here,
we walk off into the night,
free Robins singing.

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.