Oriole, somewhere,
my heart escapes up the tree,
I’m learning to sing.

Full of silver fish,
the lake, surrounded by sound—
blue on blue sky days.

More alive each day,
budbreak season in the woods
all kinds of green light.

I know what matters,
sun on my back for decades,
birds in all my arms.

The wind in these trees—
gathered in their high branches,
sent across the lake.

My mother’s plum tree,
birds take turns in the branches
petals fall from beaks.

Poets are teachers—
they enter the deep forest
and come back to tell.

Trout lily season—
the aching is made softer,
these first days of May.

A red-winged pair here,
their call caught in the grasses,
becoming their world.

Earliest spring moss—
like stars on the forest floor,
made of the same thing.

A veil on the day,
falling asleep to spring rain,
seeds grow overnight.

Love, just above the ground,
I feel it but don't say it—
spring is deepening.

The messengers came
in many forms in my life:
air, sky, water, trees, birds, love.

Last night of April,
dreams covered in green lichen,
everything blooming.

Clouds in the river,
even in early springtime,
lonely for springtime.

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.