The trees' small round doors:
I would like to knock and call on all.
Who will greet me?
Chickadees
chattering their names but spring
is no closer.
If there are owls I
cannot see them but poison
ivy twists up to look.
Who is this cruel shrub
pushing catkins from their nests
into cold January?
The ice booms
beckoning fishermen and
intrepid explorers.
You hurry and cover
more distance but I walk
and find more wealth.
Early winter,
thin snow, ample red berries,
birdsong and squirrel games.
Wanting to wander far
but wiser trees creak a warning
the storm is near.
