sometimes i remember to make a record
of what i'm doing.
because it's like this: all the making of all the years of all the ideas
(which is also why i forget things...)
become one thing only:
a life in a place.
the new place i call home
(while i still live in the old place called home)
is rich in ridges.
this ridge i've cleaned out,
the slope is steeper than it looks,
and my partner moved some rocks that are available
to become part of a garden.
it's resting now, as winter comes on.
the ridge points to,
i've seen a coyote lope through
pausing now and again one morning
and i've watched three deer, no four
make their way up to the ridge,
over and around it.
i saw a mink scurry past the tip of this ridge.
here and gone, quick quick!
today, as yesterday,
i walked around home, old home
and tiny blossoming goldenrods, three fern species,
wild grapes, applemint
rose, honeysuckle, and raspberry leaves
and one rose hip
thick staghorn sumac antlers.
the goldenrod flowers shock me
blossoming on the regenerated growth
after the august field mow.
all this abundance in the middle
all this abundance when
it's likely as not frozen and gray and brown and harsh.
today i walked briefly
tired after six hours of printing,
and i saw myself being watched
by a young, furry and large-eared doe.
a this year fawn,
mostly grown up
attending to me ("is she safe, is she crazy?")
as i went up my walk:
"hello, little one, i'm going in the house,
eat well and safely there
she stood alert,
watching as i went indoors.