sometimes i remember to make a record

somehow

of what i'm doing.

why, i wonder,

because it's like this: all the making of all the years of all the ideas

concertina themselves

(which is also why i forget things...)

become one thing only:

a life in a place.

here.

the new place i call home

(while i still live in the old place called home)

is rich in ridges.

concertina landscape

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.

that meadow

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

gethering greens

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

of november!

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

my friend."

she stood alert,

watching as i went indoors.