earliest spring —

she dips the tip of her brush

into green

at ocean’s edge —

shore birds tracing

each wave as it goes

predictable flood

at the spot where the road dips —

elderly parents

that last layer

of ice finally melted —

first grandchild

is this how I am?

watching tiny oak seedlings

unfurl in the sun

when the song is done

she compliments his teacher —

not there, yet present

(for M.S.)

trying to believe

her reports

of my snoring

the last melting snow —

I let myself look back

at baby pictures

we wake the baby

so that he, too, can hear

the great horned owl