Spear thistle wakes up
at the base of a tree stump
as birds sing to sun.

Spring sun on our heads,
wild moss at the riverbank,
mystery, it all.

The early bloomer,
pulled up by the song sparrow,
into the spring sun.

A brow or an arch,
gold dust lichen blooms all year
like a crown of sun.

I am one of the first,
I come with pollen and light
from deep underground.

Awake in the woods,
after the long darkened sleep,
making a story.

The river is life,
the sun sets in its swirling—
it swallows it whole.

I didn’t see it,
the stardust that’s everywhere,
the endless chances.

Velvety moss grows
all around my mother’s yard,
wild and green all year.

In this otherworld,
the path is deliberate—
all is forgiven.

All of spring is here:
the slow rejuvenation
of the forest pond.

Under the gray sky,
gray mourning doves start spring calls
with reedy voices.

Killdeer here calling
as dusk comes at the river,
trees regard us well.

Leaving the day here,
we walk off into the night,
free Robins singing.

A sail of fresh seeds
ready to be blown with wind,
I’m pulling for it.

Silver seedpods twist
open and float like stopped boats,
seeds sail on the wind.

It seems life is long,
the decision to keep walking,
the second guesses.

The full moon still hangs—
I look out on the morning,
crows follow their path.

Clouds skip above us
like the sails of floating ships,
blown open with wind.

Here to wait it out,
the first ones back for springtime,
two red-winged blackbirds.