Other than birdsong,
only the sound of the leaves
in our thankful ears.

Like a swimming fish—
the purple-toothed polypore,
in the forest’s depths.

Impossible seeds,
the milkweed sends each one out
into this plain world.

Forget me, forget,
everything’s bigger than me,
forget me, forget.

Sun changes the woods,
wind breaks the lake reflection,
leaves on the surface.

I say to let go,
the heartbreak and the breakers,
waiting for a sign.

The deepest season,
orange trees sink into the
cold, gray, glassy lake.

The peace of morning—
my dog napping in the sun,
poems in his ears.

The cold heart holdout—
late October garden rose,
under the white moon.

Inside with poems,
Orion goes, the sun comes—
this is what I’m for.

Dark October clouds
during our afternoon walk—
wild carrot still blooms.

Is there still mercy?
The boy and his small blue bird,
a flightless flight.

How to save this bird?
Every dark cloud after us,
danger everywhere.

This small quiet life,
I am not a gift for you—
a thing of beauty.

Limbs, always outstretched,
here, rooted by the river,
thinking only sky.

for Louise Glück

Surprised by the death
of a favorite poet—
life seeing poems.

Let go, let go of
the dark night, the lost embrace —
let go, let go of.

The tender life of
a forest mushroom, or an
October flower.

The kingfisher flies—
making the river his life,
not needing belief.

Big October skies
breaking apart every day,
and rearranging.