Made of sky and stars,
bright leaves from my nature box,
laid out on vellum.

Empty chrysalis—
space for a beautiful thing,
a wandering life.

This humble round nest,
past and maybe future home,
to be salvaged, loved.

Some days I’m not here,
back and forth on the timeline,
just learning to be.

Thinking about birds,
trees, unlivable today,
after the ice storm.

Protect these people,
Mr. Vonnegut would say,
just trying to be.

Standing on this spot,
thinking of that other shore,
my mind can make it.

Bursting into seed—
cattail like a soft match head,
becomes food, homes, nests.

My heart on my sleeve,
there’s no other place for it,
in this long, bare life.

Heart-shaped nose, crossed paws,
companion like no other,
the sun, just being.

Catching the light,
moss striped with snow grows bright green,
warm under my hand.

A lichen bracelet,
a sheet of birchbark paper,
specked with gold stardust.

Alone, in a dream,
setting the downside aside,
coming out alive.

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.