Two woodpecker pairs
tapping in the still forest,
the only sound heard.

Green moss wreaths each tree,
river flows with melted snow,
spring’s foot in the door.

Like the Milky Way,
like a curled listening ear,
this blue turkey tail.

The beaver sculpture
left beside the fallen tree
at the river’s edge.

The geraniums,
the plots of land and gardens—
only poems left.

Am I in the stars,
the birds calling, tree to tree,
the sun on this moss?

Spring frogs are singing,
the forest is waking up,
we walk and listen.

Not needing poems,
letting April warm his fur,
my dog finds sunlight.

The first of April,
he’s been waiting all winter,
this Robin, singing.

Spring is underneath
this cold lake receiving sun,
waking us up, too.

When we were still young
someone got to name the stars—
battles, hopes, and fears

The eye of the pine,
one of three in my mom’s yard,
watching over her.

Purple moss growing,
taking up every crevice—
a soft earthly life.

The lives of finches,
whole bodies in the blue sky,
unafraid of heights.

Yard full of birdsong,
we’re concerned about these things,
my mother and me.

I ring a small bell
every day for my plants,
they echo in blooms.

The eye is on me,
Robins waking on the grass,
singing like crazy.

Tender pussywillows,
soon there will be kinglets perched,
at home in this world.

Perfect beak-built nest,
survivor of ice and snow,
glows in late March sun.

Like a springtime deer,
soft-bodied and velvety—
cattail at the pond.