snowstorm over
my grandson puts a seed
in my hand

morning walk —
nothing for the stone fence
to stop

without his wife —
throwing old bread
to the sparrows

passing clouds
the scent of wild thyme
on my fingers

red ribbon
on a sweat-lodge pole
fading sunset

fiddleheads
in the chill breeze
my fingers curl inwards

scent of blossoms . . .
her house at the end
of the avenue

tilted gravestone
the weight
of a butterfly

cloud shadows —
an eagle picks over
what the tide left

twilight . . .
the brush of dune grass
across bare shins