The pollen starts it,
bloodroot, trout lily, toothwort,
feeding the forest.

First hepatica
in the woods I’ve walked for years,
each time with new hopes.

Twin century trees,
one falls before the other,
lies like a shadow.

Two woodpecker pairs
tapping in the still forest,
the only sound heard.

The sun falling low,
the peace in this green forest
grows from the ground up.

Earliest spring moss—
like stars on the forest floor,
made of the same thing.

Shagbark hickory,
ancient and alive as me,
bloodroot at your base.

Forest in April,
the greening of the shoulders,
sky, higher than sky.

These woods are like home,
the voices of singing frogs
fill the treed room.

Long shadows at dusk,
the woods become different—
Robins run ahead.

A flock of kinglets
move in the understory,
the moss greening first.

Eaten through by rain,
last year's curled skeleton leaf,
lit up by new moss.