Woodpecker feathers —
a pair, each dressed with eight full moons,
on the forest floor.

Doorways and windows,
retreating and advancing —
sometimes passing through.

There but for the grace
of place, time, circumstance, and
recklessness of luck.

The arrow turning
sideways and also straight through —
always, the trying.

It’s not even dawn —
I’ve built a small monument
to what could still be.

It’s walking the path—
happiness doesn’t begin,
it just is, is, is.

We float on this raft,
stars rise and fall above us —
shining in our eyes.

Ginkgo in winter,
robins looping all around,
sun setting silent.

Robins rushing out
from the woods during the snow —
oh, January.

Like buoyant notes found
with the greatest tenderness,
each tree snow-dusted.

Feed the birds first thing,
while the sky is still gray-dark,
clouds layered with cold.

Goldenrod will bloom
again along this cold path —
the sun on our backs.

I’ll speak our names here,
to the lichen in these woods,
to remember us.

Everything is soft
on the forest floor — alive
in December light.

Every tree in it,
I’m lost in this old forest,
the taproot waits out.

Give it all away,
it’s the only thing you have,
give it all away.

December lights blurred —
the decision to go through
the in-between time.

The drive through town square,
bringing memory and hope —
to see family.

Flat against the frost,
my dog and his nose walking —
lichen blooms from trees.

Day after solstice,
winter sky pulls over us,
cold clouds of all kinds.