I dreamed as a bird—
it’s the path I would choose
in my afterlife.

I’m awake, awake,
the doors and windows are open,
my hands out, palms up.

Geese take their places,
the river, over its banks—
the feel of Sunday.

My eyes are open,
I know my story, even
lost in this forest.

Sun wakes winter moss,
ice that will become spring pools
melts and reflects sky.

January thaw,
the forest swollen with melt,
wild yam seedpods float.

Fire in the distance,
you built it, keep it going —
mistakes light my way.

A sunburst lichen
blooming in January
we walk and we breathe.

Green stars on the ground—
moss blooming in late winter
at the full river.

Heavy-heartedness,
it’s quite a thing to carry
through each day, through life.

Memorialize
the beauty I tried to find,
my mistakes, and me.

I miss the seasons,
the life I was just starting,
breath in my city.

Small lights burn for you,
small songs are sung by songbirds
to remember you.

Somehow, it comes back—
hope, lost in the winter bleak,
again and again.

Under the weather
so far this year in all ways—
I miss the forest.

All windows and doors—
memory, birds in a tree,
each day flying through.

The moving forward—
crows fly in against pink sky
to roost and then back.

The cold blue morning
breaks into sun before noon,
birds wake up and sing.

Little universe
of blue-shadowed morning snow,
of an open book.

Let me set it free:
begin, begin, begin, be,
begin, begin, be.