Trees cut and stacked,
rings like stars, suns with rays, eyes —
centuried birthmarks.

Trees cut and stacked,
rings like suns with rays, stars, eyes —
centuried birthmarks.

Trees cut and stacked,
rings like eyes, stars, suns with rays —
centuried birthmarks.

Trees cut and stacked,
rings like eyes, suns with rays, stars —
centuried birthmarks.

A December day,
forest open to the sky —
nests and birds revealed.

My arms, full of stars,
by morning they’ve disappeared,
shining in my mind.

The last light of day,
anointed in this forest,
your absence, your smile.

The loops and chatters—
sky and trees full of Robins,
we enter their woods.

Creek changed by beaver,
now still enough to reflect
above the new dam.

Mackerel skies all day,
like a sheet of paper, drawn
steadfast, defiant.

The long quiet hour,
we make our way to the woods
through the goldenrod.

Warm November day,
all the insect songs are gone,
snowbirds just arrived.

Forget me, forget,
everything’s bigger than me,
forget me, forget.

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

Dark October clouds
during our afternoon walk—
wild carrot still blooms.

Darkness comes on quick,
the woods in mid-September,
crickets sing all day.

Trees—rising, falling,
lily colonies below,
ancestors, not ghosts.

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

Some days I’m not here,
back and forth on the timeline,
just learning to be.

Thinking about birds,
trees, unlivable today,
after the ice storm.