The deer on her path,
the blue heron on his pond,
dusk comes while we walk.

We circle the lake—
Robins hop from branch to branch,
willows glow yellow.

Up close to his call,
mourning dove on my front porch—
he has had his say.

April is my month—
it's the month of poetry,
belief, rewarded.

Let's meet in the creek—
they both say from either side,
lonely reflections.

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.