Artifacts of life
I’ve picked up along the way,
flying and growing.

Goldenrod has turned,
we walk in differently—
like we’ve swallowed stars.

Sunburst on sunburst,
gray and yellow repeating—
December lichen.

Floating on treebark,
the oldest earthly beings,
star rosette lichen.

Lichen draws me in,
masterly ancient ochre—
lone parking lot tree.

The moon moves the lake,
deer move where goldenrod bloomed,
the forest at night.

At the tops of trees
the seed eaters leap and munch,
nests lined with cattails.

Listening for owls,
the last ones in the forest,
as blue as tree trunks.

The kite went up fast,
the lake looked small below it,
the dog, diving in.

That yellow presence,
the calm that centers it all—
that truth in the room.

The limited days
to imagine all that’s next—
to sing and make things.

I forget myself—
at my desk, under lamplight,
darkness coming on.

The moon starts again,
a curve in the sky, alone,
catching in my throat.

The remembered me,
I am connected to you,
though not you, today.

Gentle companion,
finding snow in the shadows,
nosing the full yard.

Fragile and dreaming,
the unlikeliness of it—
you and me, here, now.

Thankful for this sun,
letters and words and stories—
told and yet to be.

The day’s quiddity—
optimism made of sun,
things that feel like sun.

Rearranged daily—
accumulated wisdom
in the changing sky, birds, trees.

Sun over pink clouds,
the interior lights up,
things take a new shape.