no snow yet this year —
the cold moon looks for a place
to reshare her light

"colonial charm"
racist variation on
"nothing to see here"

at last the echo
of our expressions in his —
our boy sounds like ours

I was in a rush
but I've never been able
to remember why

when I was first born
my father worried I might 
be breakable

Boxing Day dinner —
plates full of leftovers and
reheated stories

wondering again
if the last snow storm we saw
was the last we'll see

Santa hat —
collecting smiles from strangers
despite the chaos

quiet in the house —
just the tick of pine needles
falling off the tree

waiting in the trees
for us to break up the ice —
juncos at first light

Solstice starlight —
the long line to summer
unrolling before us

spray-painted pine cones —
we keep the old ornaments
and all their stories

another cold night —
I listen for the sound 
ice makes as it starts

after the storms
all roads end in water —
we find a new way

no sign of the stars
as the all-night rain begins —
finches huddling up

snowflake lights
between our upstairs windows —
now we're ready!

hungry for the cold
for the black and bare branches —
more space for dreaming

HT @heathr

https://twitter.com/heathr/status/173576221901787172

shooting stars
beneath a fingernail moon —
we gasp in unison

even through socks —
the pine needle invasion
has begun

sunset giving way
to a black sky with a hole
for a new moon

mailbox thief —
I measure out the sugar
to re-bake my gift

rainy Saturday —
another forgotten door
in the Advent calendar

wearing a bowtie
to meet his grandmother —
baby's first funeral

Solstice approaching —
a flurry of list-making
in pencil, in pen

long before the clouds
stacked up like a traffic jam
there was this fire

the darker the days
the brighter the stars, it seems —
even as they fall

no conscious choice —
the radio station in my head
switches to Christmas

December half moon —
the times I almost came out
but then reversed course

holiday baking —
I fail again at
sleeping in

the famous icicle
my mother let me bring
for show and tell

hand over hand
we pull the bucket up —
cool water and stars

friends from the city
have trouble adjusting —
how dark our dark is!

feeling my hair
freezing on my head
as I walk to work

chickadees
pulling the sun along
with their five-note call

stories in the dark —
the full moon holds a note
so we can tune up

how deep
would this rain be
if it were snow?

sparks from the fire
and the sounds of their laughter —
everything rising

junco and nuthatch
with their jaunty one-note calls —
Solstice in a month

seeds grab hold of us
as we walk through the tall grass
practicing mourning

Rosie's hula hoop
bright against the night sky —
we forget the moon

November rain —
the ducks invite the wind
to carry them backwards

at my age, she said,
when you don't hear from someone,
you worry

frost as ground cover —
birds in the azalea bushes
fluff to twice their size

leaves and acorns
drifting and plummeting —
earth tones for the earth

sagging phone wires
turned to gold as the sun slides —
did you see it too?

the morning's cold
wrapped itself around my bones
and is still there

beneath the willow
there was a kind of cave
perfect for hiding

pink clouds in the west —
my drive home aiming me
straight into the sun

two girls remember
where the colored pencils are
and the paper, too

(HT Denise Levertov)

invisible new moon —
I try to remember
the scent of snow

rematriation —
Cohanzick Nature Reserve
returns to her people

perfectly happy
with their upside down world —
busy nuthatches

reach over me —
turn off the light to reveal
Venus and the moon

late-night encounter
with a buck and his shadow —
antlers everywhere

cold rains, dark nights —
the cows spend their first night
in the barn

HT @NYFarmer:

https://twitter.com/NYFarmer/status/1722105823462031430

that feeling you get
when you see a wheel that spins
(wanting one more spin)

shushing the neighbors
so we can hear the screech owl —
a sound like no other

that white-throated sparrow
with the slightly raspy song
has returned

slivers of olive tree
buried beneath rubble —
aggrieved and grieving

tricking gravity —
we empty the rain barrel
with a siphon

tasks of the season —
find my windshield scraper
and my soft red gloves

a fairy, two cats,
and a Mandalorian —
this is the way

even when planned
the clear-cutting of fall crops
feels like violence

today's long game
of hide and seek
with the rain

as we sleep
the trees cover our rake work
with fresh orange leaves

in which we wonder
why helping neighbors in secret
is so much more fun

today again I spent
more time than usual
looking away

waxing crescent moon
still below the horizon —
unhookable fish

forgetful squirrels
and their contributions —
reforestation

today would have been
his eighty-seventh birthday —
good wind for sailing

worn shirts, old blankets —
some nights there is not enough
softness in the world

chasing the sun
up into the sky —
bright orange cosmos

stars reeling overhead,
the ache resolving into
calls for a cease fire

I meant to visit —
then I planted a garden
and you know the rest

two old cicadas
checking in with each other —
"Hard frost?" "No, not yet."

misdiagnosis —
she looks one more time
for a doctor who listens

no food, no power,
no water, no cell service —
all we can think of

pulling over
on the way to somewhere
to watch clouds light up

feeling the weight
of each log in its place —
stacking firewood

closing my eyes
to concentrate on summer —
last ear of sweet corn

sweeping goldenrod
its arc bending towards the light
we know is dwindling

we tuck the roots in
with the leaves that have let go —
sugar maple

I needed to hear
my path was survivable —
National Coming Out Day

resplendent fox —
the wide green Earth transformed
into a backdrop

warm autumn days —
we warn the ferns not to send
those fresh new shoots up

more leaves on the lawn
than are left on the tree, now —
early rake days

still here
with their wellness check-ins —
mated cardinals

homemade mulch
and a quilt of dead leaves —
let's tuck the bees in

perennials busy 
building the roots they'll need 
come spring

twin positive tests —
we tell the stories of how
it could have been worse

my father's birth month —
no need for a card
again this year

toast, applesauce,
a small bowl of rice —
easing back into life

scrambling eggs —
the whisk beating in the bowl
always my father's

tissues and pillows —
nothing to report
from the sick room

red, gold, and orange —
we claim a front-row seat
for the coming change

Rosie wants to know
why we keep calling her cute —
so cute!

days and nights of clouds —
the moon tries one more time
to break through

coastal storm surge —
the last flowers of summer
knocked down for good

thinking ahead
to the light we'll be missing —
fall equinox

reaching for blankets
as this late September rain
floats down as mist

pellets of bones
at the base of the tree —
an owl's resting spot

tugging
at these loose threads of summer —
white-throated sparrow

one last push —
flowers working overtime
to give their seeds a chance

my friend from way back
sends me a picture of sky —
together in blue

at the center
of the quiet patch
I found a fox

the sound of rain
making its way down to earth —
something soft lets go

pollinators
in slanted afternoon sun —
every bloom sacred

cooler evening air —
let's stand for a moment
at each open window

as soon as we leave
the birds return to their bath —
a dance in each day

the bees and moths 
accept an invitation —
tall purple asters

now who was it
I was going to send
that poem to?

little goldfinch gang
descending on the garden —
no seed is safe!

tiny tomatoes
from seeds that were hidden
in the compost

she waited until

no one was watching

and then slipped away

 

spreading out slowly
into the still night air —
scent of a skunk

reaching back
into my childhood
for my mother's hand

gentle surrender —
every growing thing bends down
bowing to the heat

sometimes at night
I imagine my grandfather
running away again

last days of summer —
children at play in the fields
refusing to come in

we treat ourselves
to old albums, saying
"He still makes that face!"

at last the cornfields
grow tall enough to get lost in —
September sunshine

it seemed to us then
that the moon had stayed full
for an extra night

last day of August —
the space between cicada calls
lengthens out

super blue moon —
everyone walking home
slows down for a look

hurricane watch —
we wait for the radar map
to refresh

rain in the forecast —
the mushrooms rise up
in anticipation

we fill the birdbath
the sound of water splashing
our invitation

as fall approaches
it's harder to tell them apart —
fledglings and their parents

synching my breath
with the monarch's wing beats —
milkweed in the sun

crickets offering
their encouragement through song —
it's working, friends

more smoke in the air —
the world is connected 
by burning forests

summer steps aside
to let fall say hello —
open the windows

as I fall asleep
the meadow spills into me —
milkweed, wild yarrow…

evacuation —
a lifetime of memories
with no time to pack

lining up summers
to look down the row of years
and make a few notes

summer hours —
even the crickets
knock off early

sent to the back stoop
with ears of corn for husking —
sisters in summer

little lesbian
studying the other girls
in order to pass

warm day getting warmer —
at last I jump on my bike,
create my own breeze

the monarch and I
checking in on each other
as the day flies by

robins and crickets —
treasuring our common sounds
after time away

read to me again
a story I know by heart —
perennials coming back

ash instead of rain —
we close our eyes to see
where the banyan stood

cutting back
all the non-native flowers —
I'll tell the bees

listening to rain
making its way back
to the lake

places where the rock
folded in on itself —
time touching time

northern gannet pair
their bent necks a reflection
longing and relief

when I was five
my father built a sail boat —
I handed him nails

first, salty beach air
then clover and pine needles —
my sweet sun-baked day

past overflowing —
the fog that poured in today
kept right on coming

a cliffside walk
matching songs to their singers —
I know yours, as well

long after dark
we hear the first calls of birds
we haven't seen yet

steadfast moon
watching for a moment
to shine down through clouds

after the storm
a rainbow
and another storm

fireflies getting in
one last round of matchmaking
before the thunder

a doe and her fawns
then the fox along the lake —
everyone's out tonight

half a moon
and not one star falling —
we rethink our wishes

a little river
where the sidewalk
used to be

my eyes work hard
to make sense of the dark —
shadows become deer

fledgling catbirds
sweetly waiting their turn
at the birdbath

barefoot days 
and nights without blankets —
summer sweet spot

a robin flies over
just as I look up —
red at the speed of thought

late night moths
bouncing off my window screen —
she ignores my texts

"are you together?"
we welcome another chance
to smile and say yes

all the way home
deer at the edge of the roads
hoping we're gone now

when the fox comes close
standing quietly alert
you'll want a witness

crossword solving —
Vacation Bible School
comes through at last

welcoming committee —
azaleas crowd our front walk
in anticipation

too wound up for sleep
too late for anything else —
I start the page over

we walked and talked
until our feet knew the way —
the start of a path

an ocean of stars
just past the curve of the Earth —
hiding from the sun

a volleyball net
and dew spinning off the ball  —
early morning game

my Native students
bring indigeneity
into the present

incessant sparrows —
I lie awake wondering
can I unsubscribe?

a turtle climbs
over another turtle
for the sunny spot

each person I meet —
a teacher or a seeker
of something I can teach

morning sunshine
showing just how translucent
bunnies' ears can be

summer bliss —
fingers sticky with ice cream
that dripped too fast

grandpa's old car —
we leave a mechanical pencil
fpr the next owner

trying to be seen
despite the fireworks —
lightning bugs

two parents of queer kids
asking for reassurance —
can we keep them safe?

new calendar page —
the fawns' spindly legs
seem steadier now

if they can't stand us
we will wait and watch them sweat
we who have always been

a lightning bug finds us
still holding hands
as Pride month winds down

candles winking out
as the wind 
makes my wish for me

nightly news antidote —
I count the baby's toes
as he lies sleeping

wide open window —
I think about welcoming
a cool breeze and you

watermelon days —
my sister still won't tell me
her seed-spitting trick

the sound of wings —
a sparrow turns a puddle
into a bath

after last year's drought
we catch ourselves exclaiming
over each new green

warm seaside air
carrying salt and sand —
let's bring some back home

Solstice pine warbler —
concentrating the sun's fire
on the topmost branch

Solstice eve —
girls standing beside dahlias
for a photo op

Provincetown again —
walking hand-in-hand as though
pride was a given

is this the last time?
I try to listen, not worry —
song of the wood thrush

clover holding on
to the remnants of rain —
my first barefoot day

tell about the time
we fell asleep to the sound
of crickets tuning

early morning walk —
saying farewell to Venus
and the crescent moon

rain leaving behind
flattened grass and flowers
on their way back up

the flash of yellow
as the flicker flies away 
stays with me all day

summer street games —
the girls take turns testing
who can lift up who

summer coming through —
silver mound artemisia
showing up after all

wildflower seeds —
we wait for the meadow
to trust in itself

let me think that I'm
joining the conversation —
whistling at the birds

undeniable
rip tide pulling me —
this need for rest

my watering eyes
reflecting back scarcity,
precarity

throats full of smoke —
fledgling cedar waxwings
sing down the octave

just beneath the wind 
I hear my father saying
"Great day for sailing!"

shorter and shorter —
the fledgling's hesitation
before it takes flight

earlier sunrise —
the birds sing out to ensure
we don't miss it

backyard drama —
a blue jay's hawk imitation
scatters the sparrows

just the sound of kids
messing around at the pool —
June starting out strong

staring at the space
where the artemisia
was meant to grow back

northern forest fires —
tomorrow's sunshine will work
harder to reach us

evening primrose —
waiting for a cooling breeze
and a chance to shine

seed packet instructions —
how much light, how much water
how far down to start

turning for a moment
to watch the children's faces —
fireworks

unfurled maple leaves —
large enough now to hide
a busy woodpecker

rooting for my plants
to make another comeback —
spring sports season

we will remember
who walked proudly beside us
in the face of hate