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

Red-winged blackbirds sing
here at the heart of the world,
among the tall trees.

We are here breathing
in the January bleak,
two swans in the reeds.

Remembering June
on a day of snow falling
in January.

Floating and honking,
one hundred forty three geese
make everywhere home.

Memory and light
meet at dusk on this still lake,
maybe it’s prayer.

Cloudy, blank sky day,
two Trumpeter swans at rest,
heads tucked on their backs.

Trees draw in sun,
changing at the cold lake’s edge,
filling it with leaves.

Sun changes the woods,
wind breaks the lake reflection,
leaves on the surface.

The deepest season,
orange trees sink into the
cold, gray, glassy lake.

All that’s remembered,
these days without each other,
things only you knew.

Clouds fall in the lake—
a poem read like a spell
takes me to its edge.

At Third Sister Lake,
trees and clouds in the water,
my heart in the sky.

Thinking of my dad,
in unknown territory—
he’s still wandering.

Spring is underneath
this cold lake receiving sun,
waking us up, too.

I’ll take these small things:
a pair of swans taking light,
us, taking it, too.

This beautiful land,
unforgiving as the moon,
grateful to walk it.

Mysterious life,
owls hoot from across the lake,
everything turns blue.

The black lines of trees
like tall pens loaded with ink
seep into the lake.

There’s the sad story,
the hawk who needs to eat, too,
the endless gray days.