Soft gray and blue-edged,
two left behind overnight—
lost feathers in spring.

Everything alive—
we move through in amazement,
even in the rain.

Lone wood violet,
I think about Jane Kenyon—
springtime loneliness.

Sun on the spring woods,
Mourning Cloaks find each other,
the rivulet flows.

Take me for granted,
covering this rock in green—
my soft gentleness.

I bathe in the stream
deep in this cold spring forest,
singing while it flows.

Shagbark hickory,
ancient and alive as me,
bloodroot at your base.

Forest in April,
the greening of the shoulders,
sky, higher than sky.

Rainy April walk—
we came upon a bloodroot
wrapping its cold heart.

These woods are like home,
the voices of singing frogs
fill the treed room.

The smell of the earth—
storm coming cuts our walk short,
vesper sparrows sing.

Long shadows at dusk,
the woods become different—
Robins run ahead.

The most distant star,
not certain of anything,
only beginning.

Spring sun radiates,
kinglets forage all morning,
the trees talk and sway.

Birds sing in darkness,
the wide blue April sky
opens with sunrise.

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.