The sun flitters
through branches and leaves
to land at your gate --
warming it, bringing surprise,
waiting to be welcomed in. 

As the snow falls,
the world becomes fuzzy
and brings us 
to confusion --
but somehow also to rest. 

There are few things
I do not ask of the lake
as I lie 
on this beach towel
avoiding the answers. 

A slow night on the river.
Dinghies pause for small, last tasks. 
Sun flattens water,
reflects off its surface,
wanders back home to the sky.

Yesterday our oak
came down and left a scar,
where today 
the sun begins its long work
of weeds, of wild things, of healing.

Blackberries spill
and bleed across dry paper ---
seem to foretell
all my carelessnesses,
all my seasonal longings.