branches full of birds

sleeping in the rain again —

we all dream of sun

driving, blinding snow —

worried at not knowing

where my love has gone

walking into wind

feeling myself a vessel —

a train whistle chimes in

the wind kicks up,

leaves swirling like stirred soup —

I call my mother

cold November day —

a chickadee with ruffled cap

looking overslept

how thrilling to see

an exhausted, storm-tossed bird

take wing again!

rain following rain —

I imagine the meadow

drinking it all in

birds on branches

looking two sizes bigger —

fluffed to fight the cold

the last few leaves

surprised by the morning sun —

I hold on, too

like a dream

I only half-remember —

our last conversation

deep diving through

the shipwreck of your life —

guessing what went where

in trees and bushes
awaiting certain snow —
small birds and silence

drowsy in the cold

sleep around the next corner

the stinkbug stumbles

we talk, miles apart,

to build a common space —

my frost, your moonlight

our long pilgrimage —

so much time spent arguing

over what to bring

sudden snowstorm —

we follow behind the plow

as it scrapes and sparks

let her be tired

but with a spring in her step

blushing at my name

the old fights flare up

with only the angles changed —

ice glints in your glass

high overhead

a hawk rests in an updraft —

my father’s still gone

fever dream —

you are disappointed

and the stars grow cold

meeting at last

you stop to show me the moon

all shadow and light

thick dark clouds stacked up
like planes waiting to land —
losing my father

testing its pull,

the fox hesitates, looks back —

long November nights

leaf-kicking season —
I dream again that we walk
side by side 

in invisible ink

on every star map you taught me —

your name, your name, your name

a nearly new moon —

we work on our

origin story

sunny park bench
with a cushion of leaves —
fall's invitation

with the leaves fallen
a hidden nest appears —
birds we never saw

follow me down —

I’ll hold the candle

you hold my hand

searing gold and red

in one tree, seeming like two —

my ache and anger