Domesticity,
my mind was sorting flowers—
wanting things to grow.

Deep milkweed chambers—
like a house or a soft heart,
doors, windows, open.

Embroidered branches,
shield lichens that know no fear—
starbursts without night.

The tree with a shield,
sit under it till nighttime,
notice Orion.

The pleasures of home,
January sun comes in—
everything wakes up.

Different again—
stories in the morning sun,
as always, change me.

Calls bounce through the woods,
the evening owl goes unseen—
breath pulled in and out.

Life on this blue ledge,
constantly thinking of luck—
all the miracles.

The black lines of trees
like tall pens loaded with ink
seep into the lake.

In the woods at dusk,
the sound of nibbling, high up,
eaten seedpods, dropped.

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.