Offering

I fill for you a
morning cup, my only wish,
hold it with two hands.

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February Haiku

Wintertime den, a
deer family sleeps beneath
an iced trampoline.

Celebration of
the days growing longer, we
light three small candles.

We press our faces
to the window, every
day the deer return.

Each night, the children
light the candles, always a
reason to rejoice.

Small Candles Haiku

Candlelight dances
with early November snow,
home full of sweetness.

Books and blankets grace
soft pillows, always enough
room for each of us.

The nights grow ever
longer, and still the last thing
I hear is laughter.

Earth wheels her mighty
axis, powered in part by
these small gratitudes.

Winter Flowers

Wooden pencils scratch
over Tuesday night
word problems

to Django Rienhardt’s
Gypsy guitar,
while outside,

the mountains
turn ripe pollen orange
like this mason jar

dripping with stargazer lilies,
long past open. This is
one of the illuminated 

moments, when you notice
that everything matters,
that perhaps

you have landed
in the quiet center
of your own wild 

and beautiful garden,
and the children,
half sprouted,

are rooted
and blooming
like flowers.

Minnesota Creek

Up past Lily Lane,
winter tires sink deep
into January

mud, and the road
gets twisty
beneath the width

of a silver truck.
Fields tattooed
with the feet

of ruddy cattle
give way to high
country ranchland,

and we drive
over sparkling passes
and into the sky,

into the cold, clean air
like the wild geese,
honest and free,

living our lives
like this
on a Saturday,

flying toward sunlight
and into
the great blue.