I wouldn’t have hesitated to step on the real thing
shadblow
blossoms lost to the heat in just four days
hepatica
springing through an old fern leaf art deco stamens
skunk cabbage
each avoiding the others’ hot, foul breath
mourning cloak on a twig
the forest floor belongs to the quick bright comma
bright winter morning
trees drag the rippled snow with their nets
tree shadows
even better on the drifts than my snowshoes
late afternoon sun
the flapping of an unknown bird fills the spruce with shadows
doe in snowy woods
digging through the blue shadows in search of food
ancient hemlock grove
I find the patch of moss where I once spent the night
cast-iron porch chairs
the paint may be chipping but what fine shadows
fields already green
between this ridge and the next still brown, still blue
