Making paper stars
from collected folded scraps,
meaning comes to them.

The loves in my life,
the emptiness of the house,
the familiar twist.

The bright mystery
of this beech forest, and me—
drawing alongside.

Forest Memory

The squirrel calls here,
always, blue jays in these trees,
here, sometimes a swan.

The hawk makes his rounds
sunny February day—
wings as wide as they go.

The sun through the trees
and the trees alive with birds,
part of me there, too.

The life that's hidden
in the long walk to the lake,
around it, and back.

Fine snow falls like mist
from the high branches of pines—
it feels like secrets.

Woodpecker drumming,
keeping my mind on the path,
these days I dream of.

Only the sound of crows,
the trees with arms full of snow,
we pass silently.

Camaraderie,
these three doves, snow on their backs,
teaching me patience.

Flocks of starlings fly
against the sky full of snow,
landmarks rearranged.

Looking for berries—
Robins out before the storm,
fly when I walk by.

From morning till night
I was aware of the sky—
birds and trees, the sun.