Whooper swans pin-cushioned the fields,

white freckles on recent harvested remains,

lost snow without a cloud.

Quack and squealer out of rhythm and tune,

they break the morning silence with joy.

Red berries lay on fleece…

White fleece covered the cold cracked earth…

Brown earth veneered my feet…

As my feet floated an inch above ground,

my body gracefully pivoted onward and forward

over field, lake, mountain and earth.

I want to be like Birch

A bird in its white-clad branches

The wind against its bark

Winter naked it refuses to bow down

Bracing cold with straight back

To be like a birch tree – unwavering.

Why am I doing this?

My mind wants to fly – way up high.

Who made me do this?

My young heart on that premature deathbed.

My old heart on that timely deathbed.

Coldness surrounds my

Florida heart;

grey is the firmament

not bounty blue;

the wind from major to minor

so thankful to be surrounded by trees

so hopeful to be within their embrace