This light isn’t mine
coming through the bright young trees,
but I’m part of it.

From oblivion
come the broke open seedhusks
on dark forest floors.

Its own universe,
green lichen glows on a rock.
unlike a named thing.

It comes in quiet,
greening from April to May,
the thicket fills in.

Family of nine,
goslings learning about life,
fording the river.

The woods goes about
its business of loveliness
regardless of us.

My dog chose this path,
with surprise mushrooms growing
in a hollow tree.

It starts to set in,
spring winds trying to blow in,
the fleeting blue skies.

The choice is just this:
it’s only to love this place,
sky in the river.

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.