in the spring
we thought it would maybe last
a month or two

waiting out the year —
the Raritan’s muddy bank
tamped down by ducks

the small of my back
remembering the feeling
of your hand there

stay up with me
until we’re hungry again
until the moon sets

snow melt running
through the land to the lake —
we leave our tree up

 memorizing choices
before my glasses steam over —
bakery challenge

gibbous moon —
we hope the foxes will find
our leftover gift

gusting winter wind
against a steady furnace —
we’ve all taken sides

ducks on the lake
looking for ways to be alone —
late December

how quiet we were
trying not to wake the baby!
years gone swiftly by

tomorrow will bring
one more minute of daylight —
make a plan with me

each frozen puddle
a few seconds of ice time —
crows jeering overhead

winter morning walk —
all the sledding hills jeweled
with iced-over snow

snow transformed
into embodied sunlight —
melted, dripping gold

neighbors in synch —
we slice and lift up
wet snow in layers

yard birds getting in
a few calls back and forth
before the snow sticks

the field gone to seed —
will you come to me or
should I come to you?

explaining winter
he makes his fist the Earth
our laughter the sun

even the little dogwood
we just planted this spring
gets a string of lights

Christmas tree farm —

one field of tiny saplings

waiting their turn

songs my father played
when I was still a baby —
notes slipped of their words

black lives still matter —
she re-inks the letters
In our handmade sign

bringing down
the last of the sweetgum balls  —
winter's first snow

she teaches me the song
of the white-throated sparrow —
listening for spring

restless winter night —
the cold tightens its fist
as an owl looks on

holiday baking —
Oma’s notes to herself
guide me instead

cold December air —
starlight quenching a thirst
we didn’t know we had

startling the sparrows
tucked into the azaleas —
the sound of wings

dark-eyed junco
hopping along the fence —
common and yet not

whose wish prevails
when the turkey wishbone cracks
right down the middle?

first frost —
test results coming back
positive

tornado watch —
we talk over the wind
until we can’t

we lay corn stalks down
over the mud and walk on —
frost in the shadows

saturated flash
simultaneous startle —
the bluebird’s piercing blue

our numbered dead
sitting here on my chest —
the moon keeps rowing

the name of this land
before my people stole it —
Lenapehoking

more light at night
although the days grow darker —
waxing gibbous moon

Asia Foster
gone from this earth at 22 —
I cannot get warm

where our yards meet now
just a huge wheel of a stump
and so much more sun

wind stirs the woodsmoke 
as the dark clouds thicken —
what are we making?

the fox looks back and
I feel my place in the world
fold in on itself

November morning —
we watch the wind undo
all that leaf raking

dwindling crescent —
night-blooming nicotiana
open for one last drink

down amidst the leaves
rabbits reminding each other
frost will come again

seven crows regroup
around the neighbor’s chimney —
we’re all seeking warmth

each day shorter
than the one before —
I race the sun home

home all day —
I share my water bottle
with the windowsill plant

tangle of uprooted vines
yellowing grass underneath —
no clocks to turn back

nicotiana —
white flowers even brighter
as the sun slips down

bare branches at last —
in between bouts of raking
we touch wood for luck

cold night air
and the scent of pine needles —
our gloved hands touch

the sound of acorns
falling into the leaves below
as the fog burns off

all the grandfathers
christened by grandbabies
who could say Pop-Pop

at the forest’s edge
a flock of wild turkeys
trading escape tips

Northern harrier
banking hard to double back
over our gasps

November morning —
wide open blue sky a prize
after all that fog

the sound of sirens
before we smell the smoke —
too-early dusk

trees standing around
to watch me run the table —
I line up the moon

laptop cooling fans
putting in for overtime —
Election Night

the way the sunlight
finds its way through the trees —
November dawn

a good soaking rain
and a story worth telling —
I come home to you

black on black
sliding into the night sky —
bats leaving their roost

enough moonlight
to read a love note by —
I write her one more

the sound of a phone
ringing in an empty room —
hope against hope

gone again —
the shy moon sliding back
behind the clouds

thinking about enough —
autumn grass heavy with seed
bent down in the rain

we slow our steps
trying to leave a space
for the fox, the owl

showing us 
how to love a cold snap —
purple lobelia

cloudy autumn day —
all available sunshine
crunching underfoot

a new goose moves
to the front of the “V” —
my dead father’s birthday

October half-moon —
I tidy up the ginger snaps
eating the broken ones

the last few crickets
under already sleeping trees —
still singing away

pushing our fear
ahead of us up the hill —
two weeks out

stealing from the sun
a little more each day —
mid-October leaves

that song I know

from just the first note —

you coming upstairs

I walk the edge
of the field where you birdwatch —
sweet proximities

a space in my mind
shaped just like your phone number —
sharp sliver of moon

upside-down nuthatch —   
unsure if its saved seeds
are here or there

imagining
how we’ll tell them tomorrow —
we saw all the stars

so dark before dawn
I navigate the shrouded world
by instinct

after the rain —
an unstoppable trickle
of puddle stompers

understanding
falling leaves
as prayer

half moon at midnight —
just enough light to look back 
at how far I’ve come

waiting for words
to mean what they used to —
hanging on with the leaves

who will believe
the way the moon looked at dawn
if I don’t believe

one time I came home
with everything I went for —
shopping victory

still caught off guard
by my heart’s drop and flip —
what you do to me

watching as dawn
puts the stars back to bed —
the birds cry all rise

cacophonous geese
cursing each other out —
even by moonlight

(for AB & SB)

busy garden wren —
every moment, making the choice 
between earth and sky

branches piled high —
slowly moving our backyards
around to the front

my grandmother’s
freshly squeezed orange juice —
childhood as nectar

at the start
of a new chapter —
I slip in a bookmark

(for @KrisLindbeck)

mailbox spiderweb —
“Did we get anything good?” 
father’s daily plea

involuntary —
thoughts of our night together
spilling into day

last call —
starlings by the treeful
talking out of turn

was the great horned owl
haunted by us afterwards
as we were by her?

running through fog
before the world wakes up —
can I trust the earth?

mourning routine —
a few minutes in the car
arranging my face

(for JD)

early autumn —
walks that start in darkness,
chestnuts underfoot

rudbeckia stems
in a slow-falling tangle —
autumnal equinox

just before dawn
Venus brighter than any star —
just how I see you

sound of a hammer —
remembering how easy
my father made it look

you turn toward me —
the lake suddenly brimming 
with sunshine

sunset at the dam
before we knew she was gone —
so much to hold back

miles overhead
the wind brings news of the west —
greyer and greyer

 goldfinches in fall —
we ride the sunflower heads
down to the ground

those quiet seconds
before it all comes rushing back —
ebb tide

in my dream
a goddess loses her earring —
Neptune before dawn

my love stops walking
to capture fields of flowers —
my photo is of her

uprooting stiltgrass —
we try to make room
for spring

we talk, too,
about the sky that morning —
how fiercely clear it was

close your eyes
to see more clearly —
I’m still right here

 

no more petals

just these dark centers

full of seeds

the Big Dipper
right where we expected it —
starry comfort food

underfoot
the crunch of a fallen leaf —
so many more to come

stones washed in sadness
the words long since wiped away —
mourning our losses

overhead in the dark
fueled by remembered sunlight
birds flocking south

sweet summer night —
I want to pull down the moon
and give it to you

quiet streets —
emboldened foxes strolling
right down the middle

treating myself
to a nice long stroll
through baby pictures

blinking back at us
from darkened fields damp with fog —
the eyes of a fox

when weariness
is indistinguishable from grief —
willow trees bent low

imagining
the mud has healing powers —
we learn from our boy

with every day
a little more grapevine
a little less tree

gone-to-seed grass
tickling her palm as she passes —
summer’s handshake

trickling in
as the birds dry off —
today’s dawn chorus

cycling home
to the cheers of my neighbors —
so much closer now

bandages and water  —
protesters go on a run
for supplies

every downhill path
now slick with fresh mud —
we grab for each other

just the one rain cloud —
we take cover together
her smile my sun

pandemic lap lane —
long hair waving
like seaweed

acorns underfoot —
the squirrels so busy
with forgetting

afternoon ravens
tucked into shadowed nooks
their black eyes watching

scanning the treetops
for a bird whose song I know —
anniversary

thistles swaying
under the weight
of goldfinches

cloud-crowded skies
no sign of the Perseids —
I wish on a memory

loon songs
an echo of freedom —
we take turns crying

the ides of August —
grasshoppers punching through
to cooler air

mid-summer sun —
the front yard bunny
forgets to be afraid

cosmos and ironweed
sharing their corner of sun —
we chose well, you and I

great blue heron —
still point around which
the Earth revolves

tasting my own salt
as the heat wave shimmers —
meadowlarks singing

last after-eight sunset —
let’s drive to the reservoir
and skinny dip

spending long days
in search of shade and shelter —
survival instincts