Sunday Wandering

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.

Hope

Between two days

cutting like slivers of ice,

the warmth of bird song.



The thin snow awaits

its transformation into

spring's rippling streams.



Hand-sawn, fresh split, stacked:

maple, apple, pine, and birch

. . . but for next year.

Waiting

listening for ice

invisible darkness drips

brittle pines crack

winter night

not full but bright enough

for a walk, the moon invites

my quiet steps outside