winter air
split by a jay's scolding —
we set the year down

we set the year down

to give our shoulders a rest —

someone lights a sparkler

squirrels sitting up
to make sure we're no danger —
house sparrows check, too

quick rising fog
rolling out over the fields —
another virus scare

backyard fire pit —
I carefully carry
some smoke inside

winter rain
washing out 
our wish for snow

sky-filling snow geese —
each one still able to find
their own place to land

neighborhood puddles
full of Christmas lights —
we change plans again

no one seems to mind
when a baby breaks the silence —
Meeting for Worship

on the lookout
for a good sledding hill —
two northern girls

the space between
my footprints growing longer —
almost flying now

winter solstice -- 
we make a joyful noise
over and over

working together
to put up a string of lights —
hold the ladder steady

its tail tip looking 
like a brush dipped in black ink —
red fox running

no sign of the sun —
with every step we sink
deeper into earth

nearly full moon —
we wait for the virus
to come full circle

prowling orange cat —
a bluejay follows overhead
shrieking the alarm

one last push
to put the leaves in piles —
front yard bunny looks on

mud from the garden
brought in on boots —
we take turns forgiving

how sure can we be
that the moon is still there?
clouds and more clouds

watching for snow
while I look for kindling —
the idea of home

Colorado spruce —
the scent of childhood Christmases
fills in for our parents

how long will we wait
to know that we've made it through?
(traveling in the dark)

our usual routes —
my night intersects
with the fox's

something to keep me
company on a long walk —
the wren's winter song

every plan
becomes something to lay down —
still, we look up

cold gusting wind
looking for a way in —
check the locks again

new moon in winter —
we sketch out a plan
for next year's garden

every branch bare now —
if we read the ending first
will it take the sting out?

the fox slips away
leaving me to conjure safety
all by myself

a new variant —
we wrap a string of lights
around our maple

the sound of rain
trickling along after —
names of the missing

the snow didn't stick —
we stuck our tongues out 
anyway

I wait for feeling
to come back to my fingers —
almost December

a wren's call
trickling down as if someone
poured the day too fast

what might we treasure
if one more end was nearing?
(snow in the forecast)

gingko leaves —
I drag my feet for the pleasure
of stirring them up

we tell her this fog
isn't even our thickest —
desert visitor

snack break —
gulls drop shells onto the road
to crack them open

fresh cranberries
floating in a flooded bog —
more than enough

a strip of water
just deep enough to reflect
as the wave pulls back

your voice 
at the end of the day —
my favorite blanket

music floating skyward
like sparks from a campfire —
backyard drum circle

a screech owl's calls —
the only sound left after
we shush the neighbors

past when we can see
and through the night as well…
golden leaves falling

sunlight on frost —
a fox walks casually
through the burning bush

which ache is this
deepening with the cold?
November losses

walk her home again
after she's walked you home —
no one wants an ending

we open the door
to hear which songs have stayed —
this quiet first frost

night sky sinking in
bare branches black on blue —
something takes over

ready comfort
when hope twists in on itself —
your hand on my cheek

only the mums
are left to tell the story —
how blossoms looked, once

sun-soaked world beating
to the slow open and close
of monarchs' wings

mid-November dark —
we fill in what we can't see
from memory

sounds of ice scraping
sliding out over the day —
winter drawing close

the little dog I found
while out on my walk was lost
three doors down from home

the farm stand lines up
a summer's worth of honey  —
this season's last sale

why do I recall
every word of the song
that played as she left?

even the wisteria
stops trying 
to extend itself

air that stays cool
even as it fills our lungs —
we quicken our pace

stretching Hallowe'en —
we leave our giant spider
dangling one more night

end of season work —
we turn the hedge trimmings
into a hiding spot

we watch the leaves
and worry about the roots —
Afghani refugees

almost November —
the geese seem sure of themselves
until they're not

a change at the lake —
cormorants perched atop
newly downed branches

ready to dig up
every last tulip bulb —
October squirrels

a puddle of red —
the maple tree gives in
all at once

dogwood sapling
on the edge of giving up —
not even November

this spider and I
each waiting for the other
to make a move

where the peonies
used to bloom and hang their heads —
an open space

what he taught me
becomes each story's point —
my father's birthday

spinning a new web
every morning before dawn —
spiders catching light

Friday night —

pulling clean wrinkled clothes

out of the dryer

October moon —
a white-throated sparrow
serenades the marsh

a faint star waking
as the sun lets go at last —
listening with our eyes

(on request, for S.W.)

adding more layers
until I can feel the press —
blankets and friends

busy sanderlings 
stitching the new wave line —
low tide at Holgate

one bee still at it

in these last few zinnias —

all of us holding on

geese overhead
calling out their intentions —
fly, stay together

early morning sun
spilled out over the bean field —
my quiet harvest

kicking the tops
off of bright orange mushrooms —
hard day at work

spooky season —
the sound of my own blood
rushing in my ears

tall grass drawing
beads of mist from the low clouds —
we fight back our tears

all my letters
to my grandmother
have returned to me

as we stand talking
a leaf floats down to the earth —
the tree has a word

our front yard maple
orange around the edges —
woodsmoke in the air

rage and betrayal —
racing to get the trash out
before the truck shows

still no sign of light —
knowing that it's morning
from the blend of sounds

here we are
picking at the edges —
frayed days

catbirds swooping in
for a try at pokeberries —
autumn stock-up sale

every every morning
a few more petals 
on the ground

every light
twinned by the river —
the boathouse at night

we leave a space
in our conversation —
the flowers speak up

jalapeño slices —
fingers still tingling
hours later

we stay out talking
until chased in by mosquitoes —
early autumn nights

a family of deer
stand quietly watching me —
I borrow stillness

they saw a fox once
but was it red, or grey? —
flickering memory

fallow season —
we think about cover crops
and wintering over

how we celebrate
when the evening air
turns cool again!