each morning

a little more light

to see you by

waiting for the sound

of her key in the lock —

the click of us

late night fox

flowing over the field —

we hold our breath

ruffled feathers —

sparrows chirring their complaints

into the wind

the dogwood tree

we thought might be dead —

how sweet to be wrong

all that my father taught me

spiraling down and out

one long apple peel

eye appointment —

the edges I’ve lost

come back

as we walk

you read the world to me

out loud

piled up in drifts —

all my little snow day

to do lists

low moon cross-hatched

with the black and bare limbs

of winter trees

the sky and the lake

saying good morning again —

geese caught in the middle

a fat robin hops

to the balcony railing —

our talk turns to spring

after the big win —

no grandfathers left

to share the news with

unexpectedly

the wind tonight is warm —

the deer lift their heads

rivulets running

as the ice and snow melt —

streets full of starlight

a sudden squall

of big unruly snowflakes —

the fawn’s spots gone dancing

ice then snow then ice —

our travels made visible

as we break on through

half full or half gone —

which story is this moon

trying to tell me?

again this morning —

sunlight picks apart the stitches

knit by last night’s cold

bitter cold —

my thoughts retreat

to the curve of the Cape

job security —

they ask me to take out

the stinkbug

late night walk —

the line between rain and cloud

blurs

where have you gone?

every puddle overflows

with winter rain

falling asleep

we pull up one more blanket —

snow in the forecast

the man just ahead

leaves behind a clump

of cigar smoke

the ice-rimmed lake

closing in on itself —

dad reviews his will

near Gate C7

a small flock of sparrows —

unexpected flight

birds of paradise

collecting rain from the wind —

each one its own world