The deer in the lead
stomped her hoof at us two times,
we smiled and moved on.

The bright beginning
bursts out of the dead tree,
now alive again.

Perched on last year’s leaves
opening and closing
her wings in the sun.

I bought the last one,
two dollar daffodil bunch
by the railroad tracks.

The branched polypore,
it came down like a spaceship,
a soft land on earth.

The pollen starts it,
bloodroot, trout lily, toothwort,
feeding the forest.

The perfect bloodroot—
pulled up through the caved-in tree
by the April sun.

Bluebirds guard their house,
picturing featherless beaks
needing to be fed.

April opens up
the earliest daffodils,
and everything else.

Cutleaf toothwort bloom
drawn out in lean cold April,
the month of poems.

First hepatica
in the woods I’ve walked for years,
each time with new hopes.

For now, I belong,
walking along this river,
breaking and moving.

Trout lily and moss
colonies under our feet,
feeding the season.

A simple shadow,
the gentleness of the day,
Ohio cornfield.

Birds sang songs for night,
everyone loved the world,
moon shadowed the sun.

Solar eclipse at totality, April 8, 2024, Napoleon, Ohio.

First forsythia,
patient as a sundial
at the end of day.

To keep what’s vital,
our feet walking on this earth,
stardust on stardust.

A woodpecker drum
fills the early spring forest
and scarlet elfcups.

For seventeen years,
an old drawing of roses,
inside a loved book.

A spray of blue jays—
they’re wheeling from tree to tree,
calling as they go.