Earliest spring days,
the woods are always awake,
birds welcome us in.

For James Wright

The silent milkweed,
held together like a hand,
or maybe a heart.

There is order here,
beyond my understanding—
seedpod, leaf, birdsong.

Under the cold night,
from behind the scrubby pines,
sun feels its way in.

March first, cardinal singing.
What I would give for a leaf—
I don't have to ask.

They move discreetly—
animals planning a life,
in the thawing woods.

Cold, blue, moonless night—
sleep fills the space next to me,
the day shoulders in.

Dreams of living things—
at home under the night sky,
I toss and I turn.

Craving a closeness—
the deepest, dark, communion,
without even thought.

Exposed all winter,
the tendons of the forest
hold us together.

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.