fresh snow

a boil on the black birch looks good enough to lick

handprint

on the fogged-up window to view the sunrise

plowing through brambles spots me through the glass

the oak log’s colors are so bright I have to touch

a sharp-shinned hawk cuts through my trance

on each numbered leaf in the study group

the 200-year-old white oak isn’t stirring

collects enough leaves to make its own woods

craters have melted around their torch-shaped cones

alive with color in between the cracks

trapped in the cross-hatch foliage new blue ice

caps the vernal pond it’s January