On the earth’s surface,
under a cold glowing moon,
in the shining snow.

Empty for winter,
the locked together twig nest
full of meadowsweet.

Walking before dark,
we exchange the day’s troubles,
lichen blooms wildly.

The seed gatherer,
I collect them for beauty—
for what is to be.

The artifact box—
the rosettes and nimbuses,
of acorns, pinecones.

Yellow shells and buds,
meadowsweet and lavender
create a story.

Bright eyes of a walk,
discoveries in his mind,
every leaf and breath.

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.