Smoothing the edges,
the softness of memory—
heartbreaks are less sharp.

I’ll take these small things:
a pair of swans taking light,
us, taking it, too.

Interdependence—
the turkey tail’s blue ripples,
the blue of the lake.

The waiting greenhouse,
silhouetted shovels lean,
the light starts to change.

For the forlorn day,
the bees buzzing in your head—
unholdable joy.

-for Sylvia Plath

Gray squirrels whisper
in the ear of soft lichens
in early morning.

I see it in sleep:
the inky flowing river,
crushed velvet banks.

Symbiotic stars,
unimaginable greens,
lichens in winter.

Beauty and sadness,
not wanting to be careless
with either of them.

I’ve been here before,
figuring out the blank space,
it takes a lifetime.

The blue firmament,
blue as shadows cast by snow,
blue as turkey tails.

Cold, sunny morning,
the chickadees’ sing-song call,
my dog poem-sleeps.

This beautiful land,
unforgiving as the moon,
grateful to walk it.

Soft-bodied doves perched
after breakfast in the sun—
they still don’t trust me.

Three weeks in daylight,
my dramatic hyacinths,
bowing and fainting.

Many moons ago
blue night came into my yard,
fooled, I was waiting.

Lifetime of creatures,
watching for them to come out—
land, call, nest, fly, sing.

Mysterious life,
owls hoot from across the lake,
everything turns blue.

The evening path,
lined with trees that look like ink
in a cross-hatched field.

The sun finds its way
between tall velveted trees
coated with new snow.