My roots on this hill,
talking to everything else—
holding me in place.

A flock of kinglets
move in the understory,
the moss greening first.

Eaten through by rain,
last year's curled skeleton leaf,
lit up by new moss.

Birds echo above,
lilies ready to unfurl
below the surface.

Once a house for birds,
I'm part of the sun and sky,
turning into air.

I sing in springtime,
I understand the forest,
dark doesn't scare me.

I wait and begin,
carry the branch, build the nest,
I begin and wait.

I'll sleep on this hill,
my long neck tucked on my back—
the pond, all I need.

I am changeable,
and I am always changing,
no thought of an end.

I will keep growing,
the dark, fresh loam in my eyes,
a knot in my throat.

This new growth suits me,
this green light behind my eyes,
these leaves in my hair.

A cloudless blue sky,
except for clouds in my head—
like a dark thicket.

Plotting my escape,
joining these birds in springtime,
at home anywhere.

The person I was,
the things that I thought I knew,
today, don't matter.

My soft-eyed dog lies
content after our long walk,
wayfarers, us two.

All that is hidden,
the story and the secret,
sometimes stays hidden.

Pussywillows out—
listen to the song sparrow,
singing just beyond.

My plants and I wake,
I ring the small morning bell—
sound catches in the leaves.

Hopeful is the nest,
like a palm in the spring tree,
holding the whole world.

On even sad days,
full-of-mystery forest:
as I walk, I change.