The first day of spring,
possessed with loving the land,
vernal pools, spring rains.

I am memory,
I am twenty years ago,
I am tomorrow.

Driving in rush hour—
stopped at a light we watch crows
chase off a red hawk.

Red trees like mountains,
I miss walking among them,
those tallest redwoods.

My geranium
repotted for spring—
palms up to the sun.

The simple secret:
feel loneliness and let go—
be thankful and kind.

Up with the half moon,
winking in the morning sky,
at home in darkness.

For the things I love
I’ll write poems tied to strings—
hang them from this tree.

Spring, nine days away,
mourning doves start their courtship,
despite morning snow.

Tender perfect things,
form and disappear, re-form,
beautiful, each time.

The owl’s lonely call,
water moving in the woods,
one red-winged blackbird.

Warm humility,
nodding toward the window,
winter geranium.

Beautiful grandma,
the daily walk and worry—
smile for everyone.

Exile is over,
I’ve searched for myself for years,
every day I’m gone.

Spring incantation,
killdeer fly over and call—
not quite time to rest.

Only a few words
the white of the page like snow,
where mystery is.

March snow is hardest,
I clear a place for the doves,
we all wait it out.

Shapes form in the void,
the three-in-the-morning mind—
awake as birdsong.

What it must be like
to have wings with red shoulders,
the sky as your home.

Branches on the ground,
lined up after the ice storm,
to be burned, ground up.