For the past year or more, I have headed out in heat, rain, and freezing temperatures to spend time with birds. I am learning much about life, survival, beauty. Thus, I find myself writing more nature poems these days. Nature poems are often idyllic — lofty language offering peace, escape, a calm refuge. But some poems are frank, not shying from the natural order. In January, I saw two geese on a frozen pond I frequent — here is the encounter.

On a frigid January morning,
a flock of Canadian Geese
huddle on the icy marsh,
heads tucked in against the cold.

As the sun rises,
light settles on a goose
several yards away.

It is clear the goose
perished in the night.
Ebony head melding into the ice,
wings loose and low,
no life blood holding
the bird in check.
A gentle neck
bends with grace
across the frozen field.

Nature takes its course.
Geese are not promised eternity.
Perhaps a fox, coyote or eagle
will find a meal
and fortitude.

But
not yet,
for standing guard
by the fallen fowl
is love personfied.

Geese mate for life.
The ice-bound goose
did not die alone.
Instead nature reminds everyone within sight
we are cherished —
from the tiniest warbler
to the majestic goose
to the infinitely fallable human.

Yet,
a prayer should be offered
for the sentinel left behind —
loved
paired
lonely
carrying on mightily.

Note: if you love birds, here are a few great books to read:
Bird School by Adam Nicolson
What an Owl Knows and The Genius of Birds by Jennifer Ackerman
The Backyard Bird Chronicles by Amy Tan
H is for Hawk by Helen Macdonald

Since my son was small
we have reveled in taking walks.
A flâneur by nature,
Nash has wandered the streets
of London, Chicago, Porto
New York, Montreal, Alexandria
and more.

Together
we have journeyed through
wood and bog,
city and country,
canal path and mountain trail.

He is my favorite walking companion,
always ready with a funny story,
intriguing fact or
simply quiet company.

Yesterday
we met to walk our three dogs.
His Cooper elated
to see half siblings,
Max and Georgia.

We walked along a nature trail
watching ospreys dip,
carrying off fish in tight talons.
Spring air
added a note of hopefulness
on a Sunday afternoon.

As March draws to a close,
I brim with thankfulness —
for Nash, his wife Claire, the pups,
health enough to walk,
a happy marriage,
a new home,
and…
the company of slice of life writers
who make March a stellar month.

I sent a dispatch,
a quiet missive.
The epistle
contained every letter
needed for communication.
I must report
it was difficult to give the lowdown
without sharing the good tidings.

*The last word of every line is a synonym for dispatch.

My grandfather died
when my father was seventeen.
Though I never knew Alfred,
I can imagine our conversation:

“Was it hard coming to America?”
I ask.

“I had no choice.
If I wanted a better life,
I needed to board a ship.”

“Were you alone?”
I inquire.

“On the ship, yes.
but I was lucky,
my older brother and a cousin
were already in America.
I had people to help me.”

“Why did you travel to Denver,
where my father was born?”
I posit, wondering if the conversation is tiring.

“Ah, you see my brother
was sick with tuberculosis.
He needed the hospital there.
I didn’t know it then,
but the disease would take me as well,
far too early.”

“I see.
I am sorry
the path was so arduous.
You should know, grandfather,
you paved a road
for joy, prosperity.”

“Good. Good.
Sometimes
we do not get to see
the fruits of our labor.
Immigrating was difficult, daunting.
I hope you always honor those
who make the crossing
from whatever home base.
Your roots are only as deep
as your spirit of generosity.
Don’t forget.”

I know my grandfather would be horrified
by America’s current lack of welcome.
Such short memories,
such cold hearts.

**The ship pictured above is the ship that brought my grandfather to America through Ellis Island.

It is my mother’s birthday.

She and her twin sister Barbara
would have been eighty-eight today.
Barbara went first in 2011,
taken by a cancer her nursing skills
could not solve.
My mother followed in 2020
a longer illness we were so thankful
finally released her.

Mom,
I hope the flowers
are perpetually blooming for you —
lilies, orchids, tulips, sunflowers.
I hope your room
is adorned with small treasures
from walks through the woods —
pine cones, moss, driftwood, ferns.

I hope you and Barbara
are sharing a hearty laugh
about the time you tried
to help each other
brave the strong ocean surf
and tumbled together onto the sand,
laughing so hard
you couldn’t breathe.

I hope you know
Peter, Katie and I
texted today,
missing you,
thankful
for the siblings you gave us.

Today is my mother’s birthday.
She is dearly missed.

**Written on March 26, 2025

Abuzz with chatter
the holly tree vibrates with
a host of sparrows

This morning as I walked into school, a nearby holly tree hummed with conversation. A haiku (three lines of 5-7-5) is perfect to capture this moment in nature.

“Let’s go see if we can find a poem”
I say to my two pups,
traveling companions
and adventurers extraordinaire.

Crisp morning air greets us
as we hit the streets
in search of inspiration.

Ahead a fox darts into the playground
past a stately old tree,
no children to witness the visitor.

We head up the slope
toward the red brick flounder house
where I sleep as a baby.

Yesterday’s rain
shakes from the branches
as a quickening breeze
ruffles the trees.

We start down towards the river bank
where an osprey nest
sits on a pylon just off shore,
the mother osprey watching
father pad their nest.

Out towards Jones Point,
where the lighthouse stands
marking the spot surveyors detailed
at Washington, D.C.’s inception.

Fiinally,
turning towards home
we hear the lone hoot
of an owl
resting high in an oak.

On our block
tiny crocuses
push up
through fresh mulch.

“My notebook is full of ideas!”
I say to Max and Georgia
as I unleash them,
offering a treat.

Poems are everywhere
if I just look up
from my life.

**This poem is a bit meta. It contains the seeds of many posts I have written this month.

Across the street
lives a wizened tree
on the grounds
of the local elementary school.

The tree has spent its days
watching over generation
after generation
of children.

The school
opened in 1935,
to meet the city’s need
for another segregated school.

What once held
a silk factory on the edge of town
now buzzed with young Black voices.

The tree was shorter
back then —
less girth, less stability.
Still an attraction
for children
looking for a leg up.

In 1969,
after Martin Luther King
was killed,
the school planted a smaller tree
in commemoration.
Everyone understood
he had died taking a risk,
for them.

The tree welcomed
the new lithe sapling,
fresh buds, young limbs.

A half century later,
times have changed.
The school welcomes all students.
But the tree,
never saw a difference
between one child and another —
all bright smiles, steady feet.

Today
I watch children
climbing the tree’s sturdy trunk,
resting on its limbs.

The tree has expanded —
vertically and horizontally.
Growth has slowed with age,
90 years is nothing to sneeze at!
But, the tree
remains resilient.

As children pour out
into the sparkling sunshine
for recess
I can almost see the tree
straighten up,
ready to greet them
with open arms.

**If you look closely at the photograph, you can see children climbing the base of the tree 😊