The blooms of decay,
deep, with rings spun like Saturn,
feed the spring forest.

My life, a long search,
finding a place in the world—
this treetop, these woods?

Pink around the edge,
a cloud left after sunset
sky, an unreal blue.

Saturday morning,
thinking about what I love,
blue light from the east.

The moon on its back
Orion and the spring sky,
still so surprising.

Hollowed out seedpod,
cratered and silvery gray—
milkweed like the moon.

I ask, where am I?
Walking as the sun rises—
my dog at my side.

In the dark thicket,
we live by the river,
faces to the sky.

Familiar to me,
awake with a small heartache,
I remember it.

The fair messenger,
familiar melancholy—
can be a comfort.

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.