The found and lost love,
the glory of everything—
in the time we have.

January tree—
moss grows without poetry
over its knuckles.

To be heartbroken,
winter flowers feel it, too—
floating in the void.

There’s the sad story,
the hawk who needs to eat, too,
the endless gray days.

Stargazer lillies,
my grocery store bouquet
taking its sweet time.

Birds in midwinter,
singing in spite of themselves
stunned by the blue sky.

What’s still to be made,
all that’s still to be found out,
lost in this forest.

We walk the wet field
into the wet forest, crushed
with golden lichens.

First walk of the year,
crows compete for the loud caw—
we see we’re free, too.

If I had a yard
I would burn the paper stars
that I made last year.

Deer pass on this path
and sleep in tamped-down places,
birds build nests of fur.

The light is fleeting
these final days of the year,
haikus come in sleep.

We follow deer prints,
my dog’s nose fits perfectly
in each searching step.

Animal footprints
make rosettes in the new snow
around the cold tree.

The tree’s blue shadow
casts away from the gray trunk—
the first sun in days.

Made of memory,
things passed are alive in us,
things lost are not lost.

Dreams dreamed together,
remembering in a dream,
belief starts over.

These familiar things,
hands busy with ritual,
cold December day.

Somehow light gets in,
accepting the short gray days,
waking in darkness.

Clear, blue-skied solstice,
the sun was red this morning,
stars split into two.