So Many Sign Posts

Forsythia limbs
Toss wild in all directions
With frantic squirrels.

It's a gentle day;
Soft, as they say in Ireland;
The clouds are cushions.













Just a single twig
Disrupts the parallel lines
Of the wooden fence.

A thick stream of ice
Flowing down to the swift brook,
Suspended in time.












This "X" marks the spot;
Who knows just what spot it marks?
So many sign posts.












A single red eye
Peers bleakly from the tree trunk:
Cyclops in the woods.

Scampering swiftly
Chipmunk runs along the rocks,
Turns and watches me.

Towering and dead
Bare tree reaches to the sky;
Vines still crawl up it.