A lone milkweed stalk
Shakes stiffly in the cold wind.
Geese honk overhead.












Forsythia bush
Now brown bramble of branches;
Look! A million buds.








Flat sun on water:
The stream bubbles on its way
Propelled by the wind.

Shadows even now
With sky a slab of gray slate;
Sun is struggling.

Caught in the tree's crotch
Pine needles come to a rest
Waiting for the snow.

They hang, lean and lie--
Dead branches are all around;
Give birth to the earth.

A pale ghostly green
Creeps up the tree from the moss
To haunt winter's snow.








Mullein is unfazed;
Promises healing good will;
Leaves soft as lamb's wool.