In another life
I’m the light in the forest
warming sleeping deer.

I move, you don’t see,
slowly each day on this rock,
it’s how life proceeds.

Who were you that day,
in a flowering orchard
that Van Gogh would paint?

Was it a cold beach?
Where did I go overnight?
I was recomposed.

Green labyrinthine
shield lichen on every branch,
rosettes like small suns.

To be on the earth,
the attempts to describe it:
sun on moss in spring.

Spear thistle wakes up
at the base of a tree stump
as birds sing to sun.

Spring sun on our heads,
wild moss at the riverbank,
mystery, it all.

The early bloomer,
pulled up by the song sparrow,
into the spring sun.

A brow or an arch,
gold dust lichen blooms all year
like a crown of sun.

I am one of the first,
I come with pollen and light
from deep underground.

Awake in the woods,
after the long darkened sleep,
making a story.

The river is life,
the sun sets in its swirling—
it swallows it whole.

I didn’t see it,
the stardust that’s everywhere,
the endless chances.

Velvety moss grows
all around my mother’s yard,
wild and green all year.

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.