I am not sure how I forgot,
but I did.

The peace lily

by the toaster

and the pang of guilt

one feels on the heels
of neglect.

The faucet rains
until gravel floats

and by nightfall, green leaves
reflect moonlight.

I am forgiven. Forgiven
the way we give ourselves

permission to return
to ourselves.

The Way

Something about loss
found me deep
inside these woods
between sunlight
and the shadows,
under the cold white summit
that breaks bread
only with the wind.

I took her ashes to the top last summer,
but this is not
about my grandmother –
not even about my father not yet
laid to rest – it is about the way
this life moves through us. It is
the once familiar path
now changed.

It is these skis
that push through newly fallen
snow and the tracks of deer.

It is what remains.

It is breaking
trail high on a Rocky Mountain mesa
because the signposts
have been buried
and maybe this is exactly
what we were born to do.

Three Black Crows

And the heavens empty
until there is nothing left
but bare sky

and the three black crows
who talk about
nothing, talk

about everything
on their way to the top
of the naked cottonwood,

and there they listen
to the last of the falling snow
as we go on

about our goings-on,
noticing not the opening
of clouds, nor quiet revelation

of sunlight – not noticing
that the entire world
has changed.