From every branch
red-winged blackbirds’ fresh singing
fills the spring forest.

The day comes in pink,
orange glows behind the trees,
the sky, ecstatic.

Light on the river,
Whitman, Frost, and Oliver
have been here before.

Leaving, not leaving,
it’s regret we can’t outrun —
being left behind.

A windy day walk,
lichen like small galaxies —
adrift but for this.

The eclipsed spring moon
floats red in a sky of stars —
I’m here, just below.

Open up your heart,
I stand under the red moon,
eclipsed, not hidden.

Eating the lichen
as March sun wakes cardinals —
the small red squirrel.

In these darkest times,
we find a nest made of scraps,
plastic bags, receipts.

Two geese in the sun,
one fishes and one stands guard,
hearing us pass by.

March pulls out the seeds
from the field of dried seed husks —
the sun dazes us.

Branches in winter,
lichen like a green tattoo,
a true love, announced.

Red-winged blackbirds call
in the March afternoon snow —
lichen blooms bright green.

Fathers and brothers —
some get lost in the tangle,
in the woods alone.

Many moons ago,
sunlight lit all of the grass,
I dreamed while awake.

The late Sunday light
falls in these confiding woods,
making blue shadows.

Two deer cross, four wait,
the color of the forest,
gesture like a kiss.

Even in Winesburg,
dawn skies don’t have the answers —
people grow lonely.

Geese rejoice for these
pools forming from melted snow,
reflecting blue sky.

In this darkest time,
we walk and look at cattails,
read poems out loud.