rain and more rain —

imagining how it will feel

to hug friends again

just above the lake 
the full moon looming large —
did she see it, too?

someone's decided
to take the old trees down —
sawdust scented night

we stand out of reach
under the not-quite-full moon —
almost, but not yet

somehow more real
after it has disappeared —
fox at first light

all that's left since we've
lost the art of darning —
fraying and frayed

as the rain lets up
a tiny wren sings the news —
we can fly again

at the roof's edge

a tangle of wisteria —

the world as we left it

 

sunshine at last —
we try to remember
what warmth feels like

every dip and rise
completely glazed with ice —
pump the brakes again

last week's snow now 
hard enough to walk on —
no sign of the sun

how the light will look
if there's snow on the ground —
bedtime story

relay race —
we pass our survival tips
down the line

deep in the earth
something whispers "now"
to the cicadas

scraping away snow
so the walkway is clear
for the next snow

snowy morning —
chickadees all excited
over an old nest

piled up in drifts —
the things I’ll need to tell you
when we are apart

a fox and a deer
walking out over the lake —
embodied trust

snow-covered world —
everywhere I go i leave
a trail back to you

thin sliver of moon
my bed still warm when i get back —
the night split in two

just enough sun
to re-melt the world —
icicles starting up

 snowflakes so big
I can look for the one
I’ll catch on my tongue

how would it be
if we gave in to the pull?
hibernation calls

ice with its warnings —
we slip and catch ourselves
then slip again

today’s blue sky
had no room for rest in it —
the weary flew on

February freeze —
birds in the bamboo trade notes
on where the seeds are

what if the shadow cast
was that of a red-tailed hawk —
what then?

I ducked beneath
bamboo stalks bent low with snow —
bowed heads everywhere