whose woods these are
while we sleep
cold moon
a comforter of snow
for Dad’s grave
back among familiar trees
my shadow
stretches out
departures lounge
a beggar’s friendliness worth
every penny
old subduction zone
the wren sings down
another stream
unseasonably warm
a woodpecker’s
urgent knocks
siren
in the bare sycamores
evening sun
January dawn
a ladder rattling
atop a van
my first forest
56 years later
with heron legs
hat brim
going down with the sun
snow man
rooftop view
a dish
for the neighbors’ TV
dishes done
the sink returns
my gaze
