Which Is It I Mourn?

Some new white flowers
Bursting from a bush
Sitting in my front yard.









Kneeling by a pole,
Susan looks like she's praying.
Good day for a prayer.









Someone's hammering--
Persistent tap, tap on wood;
Human woodpecker.












A sprinkle of white
Winds around the tall tree trunk.
The wind is calling.


Her walk is five miles;
She tells me she has MS.
I burst into tears.









Little bench is back;
All winter covered in snow.
No one uses it.

A strong wind blowing
Sweeps leaves across the road,
And thoughts from my head.












Which is it I mourn--
The birth of a new season,
Or presence of death?

What Season Is This?

It's forbidding gray;
Furnace has kicked in again.
Still I go to walk.

How long will it stay--
This wooden piece of something
Leaning on the pole?













Sky is cold thick gray;
Clouds again and wood smoke smell.
Really feels like snow.

What has gnawed this tree?
What's turned that one root side up?
Invisible force.










Around the stone saint
Blankets cover the flowers.
He can't keep them warm.











Some white spots descend;
Restless cold wind from the woods.
Winter makes comeback.

I turn to the voice
(It sounds like it said, "Hello.")
It's just a lone goose.

Dead leaves on the road
Skitter wildly on the road.
What season is this?

A Time of Red Efts

Gray, wet and shiny,
The ran and sun on my porch.
What will it be next?

There's so much green now,
Like the world's a vegetable
Under subdued skies.

Two hawks gliding high
Under the gray billowed clouds,
Watching patiently.

My waves never stop
At the endless stream of cars
That pass through my walks.

Live green and dead brown
Coexist on the same bush:
Past, Present, Future.










Early Spring is back--
Cold moisture is in the air,
A time of red efts.









A season of death:
A neighbor and a grandma
In this rebirth time.

My thoughts grow weary
Repeated over again.
Chipmunk zips the road.

Hanging by a Thread

Gray and overcast;
Yet burst of forsythia
Brings back the color.

From thin bare branches
Green leaves open to the sun.
Even weeds look rich.











Driftwood in the stream
Worn relics of former trees;
Now smooth and leafless.

A new bird calls out,
His voice hoarse and persistent.
Where did he come from?

The yellow bus stops,
Its lights blinking into red,
Warning that there's school.

All winter they lay
Covered by layers of snow.
Now they burst upward.

From opposite ends
Of the bright mist covered sky
Crows call each other.











The old dark brown leaf
Has lasted the whole winter
Hanging by a thread.

Promises of More

No matter the clouds;
Forsythia glows like sunlight
In my own front yard.

Suddenly lilacs
Apparently from nowhere
Unfold their green buds.

A soft warm Spring breeze
Billows gently up the road
And envelopes me.


A touch of purple
Where before there was only green
Or blankets of white.

Spring's like a baby--
Each day bringing new growing;
Promises of more.









Sawdust in the woods;
Small piles of neatly stacked logs;
Distant truck grinding.










Bright dandelions
Always love to grow in groups;
They are so social.











So many green buds
Even on a dying tree;
No death's dominion.

Their Ascent to Light

Bright sunshine today
Glows through my forsythia--
Beads of yellow blooms.









A trail of pine cones
Below the forsythia.
Bright Easter Sunday.












Now the light's subdued;
Sun is filtered through a cloud
Like my crazy thoughts.

The first lilac buds
Begin to open their leaves;
Soft woodpecker taps.

A faint reflection
From a mirror in the woods--
A small instant pond.

Hush is in the air;
Even the cars whooshing past
Observe the silence.










This side of the road
Dandelions are starting
Their ascent to light.









Is it new mullein
That grows softly on the rock
Or a survivor?

Even Decay Lives

Sunshine shines through bush
Lights up forsythia buds,
Yellow and green hue.












Mother and daughter
On a trip to see the goats--
Just kids meeting kids.












How the stream has changed:
First snow, then ice and then flood.
Now it flows softly.

In this gentle light,
The meanest tree stump is soft
Sculptured by the sun.

Sports cars whizzing past
Don't see the moss in the woods
Or silent shadows.











Crows are still cawing,
But their cries are much softer
In the April sun.

With no place to roll
Tire still lies near the road side stream
With the world turned green.

Even decay lives
In this rebirth of Spring time--
Brown and brilliant green.

First Dandelions

Listen! Listen again!
I listen to the Magic Flute
On this Spring morning.

Fluster of four birds
Whirls away from the tree limb.
My heart follows them.

The fat hens cackle
As if they know a secret.
Sky is crystal blue.

Plane's hollow humming
Far above the road I walk--
A vapor of sound.









Protruding outward--
Forsythia bud cluster
Announces it's here.


First dandelions
Pop up by side of the road
Reflecting the sun.


Somewhere a stream flows
Or is it the wind's whisper?
Invisible sounds.

Murmur of voices,
Then a mother calls her son;
Slamming of car doors.

The Shadows Lay More Gently

Sudden break of sun;
Red chair on my porch lights up.
First day of April.


It's really Spring now;
The shadows lay more gently;
Green buds have appeared.













Green moss seems greener;
Bird clucks and chirps fill the air.
There's road work ahead.

Roaring round the bend;
Machines grinding and chopping.
What monsters are there?

Tree eaters again--
With blinking lights and grinding
Hungry tucks are fed.

Deep in the forest
Old dead trees turn into earth
Without assistance.













Behind the dead stump
Iridescent green sapling.
A high pitched bird tweets.

Something stirs behind;
I'm startled, and whirl around
To see my shadow.