Outdoors, I find gifts for my son:

White, hollow snail shells

Rocks with holes or bits of glimmer

Fresh dandelions. 

On nature walks, his dimpled hands

Point, gather, receive.

Rain folded the frozen earth in her arms, said

“Let me embrace you awhile. Let us transform.”

A world hard as geode, scintillating. 

Glassy overcoats of ice for all the trees

Lovely changelings, till the branches, with dismay, 

Succumbed: the new weight pulling, cracking, crashing.

At home, I spend a fair bit of time looking through the glass doors onto our back porch and yard. In the mornings, the edge of the sun is just visible as it rises over the tree tops. The light sparkles across silken spider webs strung daintily between the porch railings, evidence of nocturnal work.