As the Spruce Budworms feast and fatten…

the balsam fir tips burn orange in sunlight,
bleed a darker rust red in rain.
Everywhere I look, the forest
I love is losing.

Eventually, branches will turn 
as gray as the winter sky,
as brittle as my old dog’s bones.

Can you feel what I am saying to you?
The northwoods are dying

undeniably. 

Cape May Warblers did their best and
I cannot save my sweet old boy.
A part of me withers too,
wonders, what can I save?

It was an easy flight
and I was at ease.
I walk to car rentals,
am struck by the lack of lines!
The tremble starts in my toes,
travels upwards, settles in my chest,
close to my fault line.
Anger?   not exactly.
Disbelief?   possibly.
Understanding life can be unfair?   absolutely.
I tell myself to calm down
but my body continues to quake 
– Magnitude 2.0 –
“felt by only a few persons at rest,”

felt by only me today.
Why must I stop to stand in the very spot?
Why must I replay the call?
The call that broke me.
The earth breaks open during a quake,
why must I do the same all over again?
It’s been three years.
I relive the moment my dad passed
as I stood ninth in a long line
on a crazy-busy night
when every second mattered,

until it didn’t.
I go through the motions now,
sign where I’m told to sign,
car keys like hot coals in my hands 
– yes, some memories burn – 
I get in my car, go to the exit, 
wait while the agent receives a call.
She leans out of her booth,
“Honey, did you lose your phone?”
I pat my pockets, search my purse.
“Yes” I answer as I turn my head
and mutter to myself,
“my phone and so much more”.

Can you sense the tornado of thoughts inside my head?
Can you see the well-worn path the swirl has traveled? 
Heart to head and back again – as sure as the earth’s rotation.
Why does it pick up more debris with every passing year? 
Have I only learned how to pack my fears?
Can you teach me the art of unpacking?
The sun is shining and you are cutting the tall, green grass of summer.
Why am I sitting inside contemplating the worst thing?
Will my contemplation eventually turn me to concrete? 
Will noticing the three freckles marking Dancer’s nose slow the spin?
The garden is in full bloom; death has no place to take root.
Did you know I have always feared you would die first?
And while I hold my breath, you plant milkweed for the monarchs

I measure her moods by the
Color of her clothing
She wears orange
Not her best look
Neither is dirty-sock white
The robe she wore for days
She tries yellow 
It fades to sickly beige
Black dress drama at night
I prefer the one with sequins 
To monochrome black
When finally she puts on her
Favorite everyday dress
Soft Carolina blue 
Like my Alma Mater – 
Which in Latin means 
Nourishing Mother – 
I dance hands held high
She pulls my uplifted arms
Into an oceanic embrace
I inhale her enormity
Free from smoke and ash
Tell her she is beautiful

Smoke and ash fall from
fierce forests fires and descend
on summer in the Northwoods
like a weighted wool blanket offered
on a hot day – unwelcomed, unwanted.

For the briefest moment, the
ordinary becomes extraordinary – 
the sun alternates between peach and papaya;  
the sky, the color and thickness of butter,
begs the whittler to grab his knife,
to carve a hole for summer to breathe.

This spectacular sky is beautiful
and it's apocalyptic,
two words sharing the same sentence
for the first time, inspiring
awe but something else too – the
unease that comes from feeling small
in the grips of a force far from comfort.

I turn to Mother Nature as a child
who has eaten the last of the ice cream. 
I ask for forgiveness from past sins,
now revealed in the surreal.
I beg for rain and wait. 

The sky rains ash, not water. 
I watch the horizon disappear even
as the sun still stands in the sky,
I hear the wind sigh as if to say,
I’m so sorry. It’s out of my control.

The Winter Wren
sings me awake
in summer.
Reminds me
every new day
is worthy of song
no matter the
season.

The sun is shining
and this little one
sings for hours,
fills the yard 
with music.
The trees dance
as I relax into 
the sound,
sip joy from my 
coffee cup.

Spring rain to spring green-up – the time
between the two is said to be seven
to ten days

It seems to happen slowly at first, 
want of renewal willing to wait

for water
for temperatures to moderate,

then, an awakening to a world awash in green.

Anxious longings subside as
spring green-up signals hope for humanity

waiting much longer
for cruel tongues to turn to kindness.

Perhaps, a step to the center, 
an offering of words like water for a thirsty world,

seven to ten days set aside for healing – 
a green-up that quenches our callous ways.

Teach me how to bird 
how to slowwalk the woods 
how to train ears to take the lead 
and eyes to observe life in motion

Teach me how to bird
how to give name to the trees, 
name to the Twinflower, name to the tisk-tisk, 
how good it feels to honor nature in this way

Teach me how to bird
and I might tell you about the two Nuthatches
I watched mate on a tree limb, how I felt 
the familiar flutter of it all

Teach me how to bird
how to soulwake early and expect wonder
how to slowfall in love with this world just as it is
on a spring morning full of heartsong

The great regret, played out in each new tomorrow, is like a high-speed train racing without tradition or tracks.  

The familiarity of steel on steel, the rhythmic rattle of clickety-clack, features found only in motion pictures from the past. 

Politicians once rode the old trains, from city to city, throwing candy as the train slowed.  Bands played, people and flags waved in the winds of honored observance.  

Today, America is divided.  

Crossroad signals that once flashed red fail, warning gates that once descended to keep us safe are judged obsolete.  

The loudest voices point fingers. 

When the train of hate arrives by satellite, web or net, everyone stays home. Algorithms and isolation fuel this train.  

Hate hurls us headlong into a future as small as a microchip.  The question that forms on everyone’s lips – 

How do we get off this train?

I knew I needed a change when each new season at work felt like another uninspiring, overcast shoulder season. The grass the texture and color of parchment paper, the promise of green, a dying dream.  Eyes too tired to see the stars, boots thirsty like the song, energy waning like the last sliver of light on the horizon of an uninviting tomorrow. Gratefully, re-creation, reclamation followed recognition. A life once spent inside four office walls broke free to fields teeming with wildflowers and wildlife. Retirement – as much essential ending as operatic opening – made possible by a shoulder-season decision between intransigence and transformation. I chose the latter – one where head, heart and hands work alongside the woods and words and birds.   It is a deeper truth, this slower passage of time but oh, the bounty of birds, the bellowing of birdsong amid the long-awaited green! 

It’s More Complicated Than That

Ask me what I hate
Black flies, I say as I scratch
the welts on my arms

Ask me what I know
Worthless nuisances, I say
June’s unwanted guests

Wait, you say. Don’t you
know black flies pollinate the
blueberries you love? 

I walk the trail through the woods, my senses on full alert. 
In much the same way, I follow the breadcrumb trail of words 
as I sit down to write.  Quiet steps placed so as not to disturb the Mourning Warbler singing from the tall-tree canopy.  Chosen words positioned with great care to disperse the silence of the poet’s blank page.  There is an alchemy to wandering the woods and wading through words – not knowing the destination, not needing to know. At first, it’s unnerving to welcome the unknowing, but I have learned that certainty handcuffs creativity.  As if on cue, a woodcock ambles down the trail.  
I have no doubt that he sees me – his eyes are positioned for protection, high on his head so he can see in all directions.  I envy his vision and his near invisibility as I stand 
softly in his presence. He senses my reverence and does not flee.  By way of mystery or magic, he moseys ever closer. I pick up my pen and words spill onto the page.

Do you fear fire as I do?  
So much fuel after snow
melt.  Grass the color of
straw burns with ease
before spring greening.

Lately, it seems, the threat 
of wildfire extends beyond
the forest into our homes,
our news, our politics,
our public places.

Once a slow drip of discord,
now a raging dissonance 
draws us to our screens, 
fueling the fire-breathing dragon
within.

Wildfire season in early spring,
late summer is natural and 
cause for great care.  

Daily, high-dosage discourse is not. 
“Fight fire with fire” they say – it’s 
wildfire season every day. 

Carelessness and caring less
are causative, not curative.

It seems to me our future 
depends on fire prevention – 
pruning and protecting the forests, 
cutting back on cruelty and 
cold-heartedness to stop the
hollowing of our humanity.

Greening will only happen 
off screen when spring rains 
bring change, when seeds of
hope sprout, when caring and 
kindness become as natural 
a human response as sunflowers 
turning towards the sun.

Fire danger – isn’t it time we
tame our dragons, demand
those in power to do the same? 

Haven’t we been burned enough?

A gray Saturday in May
years ago was likely
spent at the mall,
shopping aimlessly,
lugging armfuls of sale 
items to the dressing
room, wanting only to
be the consumer and
not the consumed. 

Shopping, I knew, was
a coping mechanism
for chronic work stress
and mental exhaustion.  

As I distance myself 
from decades of 
depleting, I’ve begun 
to wonder if cancer 
was an inevitability – 
constant cortisol, a
tired cell turning, 
the over-consumption
of me!

Two years into
retirement, my body
feels different – more
white cumulus than dark,
heavy storm cloud
waiting to break.

May mornings carry
a chill so we build a fire.
I find myself content to 
rest in my chair, sip
coffee and slowly
become part of
a new day.  

I watch as Max hunts 
squirrels, Spooner 
licks snow from deck 
chairs, house plants 
bloom and feeders
tilt right, then left,
over-flowing with birds 
thankful for seed 
after their long
migration.

In this moment of 
quiet observation, 
I feel more grounded 
by the Goldfinch and
Grosbeak than the 
gold in my jewelry box,
more embodied in a
way that feels honest – 
the parts once pushed 
to the side, given new 
breath, new light, a
pen and paper to  
become.

From this place, joy 
rises with the sun 
and I abide with all
living things, joining
a chorus of communion,
nothing but coffee to 
consume.