When I think of those woods, I think a basket filling up with morning as it pours over the lip of the mountains. The maple leaves believe in the light with foliate faith. They dream it all night long, and angle their faces to meet morning. Speckled toads, camouflaged the color of humus, breathe light in.
Birds swim it, fleeter than fish.
Buttercups open their mouths to it, believing that when their petals fall they will become pieces of sky. Poems reprinted by permission of the author. All Rights Reserved.