Hidden in the shadows
Of a forest
Beneath the undergrowth
Is a wild path
Whispers of the trees
Guide the way
Songs of the Birds
Just ahead, but never in sight
Shaped by your thoughts
Never still, but moving
Follow the path of your dreams

 The sun on tired brick is grace,

displacing last night's shadows with a mercy

newer than the morning that awakes

the birds in my back alley; they go baptizing

in the puddle on the garage roof,

rippling the water caught from a summer storm,

warmed by the sun, the smile

of a God who won't let the sparrows fall.

Something held her at the topmost stair,
another hand beside her own
and the ghostly wind through the night pulsed soft,
Was it music or did it moan?
She was drawn out toward the night
like a moth drawn to the light
To fly into the candle,
to fly into the flame,
is to be more than courage,
is to rise above shame
And the ellum awoke and shook themselves
and they wept for something that only they felt
And she nearly stepped out into the star-swirling dark

6.
To keep yourself warm
You have one golden ember
How do you make it to April
When it’s only December?

This afternoon I was raking leaves. It was cold. The sky was an impenetrable grey and looked like nothing could ever break it. The trees were mostly bare, brown, and leafless, though some still held onto their burst of fall color. As I raked, the noise of the leaf blower filled my ears, but I still was able to hear one lonely bird sing. It seemed like a burst of spring right into the cold grayness of the day. I looked up, trying to find out where the song was coming from. I first looked to one tree, then to another, and yet another.