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

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

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

Do you remember
the long walk on pine needles—
the soft tender life?

I move, you don’t see,
slowly each day on this rock,
it’s how life proceeds.

A brow or an arch,
gold dust lichen blooms all year
like a crown of sun.

I didn’t see it,
the stardust that’s everywhere,
the endless chances.

Lichen under moss
growing for thousands of years
here by the river.

What seems bleak to us,
the February forest,
of course, it is not.

A sunburst lichen
blooming in January
we walk and we breathe.

Lichen growing gold,
the shape of a butterfly—
on top of this dune.

Am I in the stars,
the birds calling, tree to tree,
the sun on this moss?

Spring frogs are singing,
the forest is waking up,
we walk and listen.

Branches on the ground,
lined up after the ice storm,
to be burned, ground up.

A lichen bracelet,
a sheet of birchbark paper,
specked with gold stardust.

Symbiotic stars,
unimaginable greens,
lichens in winter.

Sunday afternoon—
we’re tired from winter, but walk,
starburst lichens bloom.

Embroidered branches,
shield lichens that know no fear—
starbursts without night.

The tree with a shield,
sit under it till nighttime,
notice Orion.

We walk the wet field
into the wet forest, crushed
with golden lichens.