Woven into breath—
the strands of me from before,
made of sky and earth.

For Theodore Roethke

His soul in both worlds—
the ache of the root cellar,
sky, full of birdsong.

The perfect forest,
decaying under soft snow,
birds sing overhead.

We walk together,
the gentleness of the day—
the soul of all things.

My mind drifting in,
old letters from years ago—
on this clear, bright day.

Snow falling all night,
veiled gusts under the streetlamp,
orange sky at sunrise.

Here I am, out cold,
here I am, dreaming of spring,
here I am, falling.

Storm gathering strength,
the weariness of winter—
puts my mind in spring.

February night,
dreaming of a song sparrow,
sending out his song.

The sun, in and out—
snow squalls swirl across the road,
we make our way home.

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.