Hear wind over grass—
carry seeds to the blue field,
let your hand let go.

The moment passes,
memories fold together,
all shadow and light.

Signs of woodpeckers,
a forest Van Gogh would paint,
color on color.

The chittering days
of gardens and long Sundays—
not sure who I was.

What is loneliness?
It settles in next to you,
filling the empty space.

The darkening marsh—
unfazed by the setting sun,
swans circle and dip.

Sunflowers are seeds,
the key is to stop trying—
seeds are sunflowers.

Yesterday, three swans,
today, five in the cold marsh—
float, preen, feed, stretch, glow.

Geese hidden in fog,
these first days of November
on Third Sister Lake.

Possibility—
the word has an ache to it,
chin out and smiling.

Possibility—
the word has an ache to it,
chin out and smiling.

The marks on a page
made by a hand that's now lost—
outlast the grand dream.

It presents itself—
the light in the old forest,
to me and my dog.

Entering the past—
photos of the lost gardens,
sunny afternoons.

I let my arms down,
the gingko turned the ground gold
almost overnight.

Lavender cuttings,
after the last summer bee,
from my mom's garden.

Morning spiderwebs,
I'm breaking into my life,
alone, building it.

The glowing forest—
I keep my dreams to myself
as the sun goes down.

Fall woods are quiet,
geese congregate on the lake,
chickadees forage.

The trouble in life,
waking up, an empty room—
telling a story.