Hercules’-club

skinny shadows lead to thorny trunks

deep in the woods

the setting sun fingers two witch-hazels

a crowd of weed-stalks

they’ll all fall down when the snow melts

monarch caterpillar

there is no milkweed but milkweed

weeds at winter’s end

a few still manage to stand upright

snowy field

the milkweed’s silk has frozen in mid-spill

in the snow

under an impaled rag of a leaf something squeaks

winter barn

a faint smell of summer through an open door

white barn in winter

a wind-chapped look where the old red bleeds through

snow so deep

any arrangement of sticks seems significant

moon in eclipse

I remember every place I’ve seen that ember

snow squall

only the H is still visible on the No Hunting sign