The “Trails” part came naturally—these are actual woodland paths I’ve walked for fifty years in the Blue Hills of Northwest Wisconsin. But this poetry collection contains more than direct observations from those walks. There are imaginative pieces and experiences from other natural settings beyond this particular woodland. I struggled with what to call them. In time, “Tangents” felt right because that’s what they are—mental and creative side trips that spring from being in nature. When you’re walking a familiar trail and something sends your mind in a new direction—that’s what tangents mean to me, and that’s how the title came to be.

When I'm crafting a poem, I need to be present in the woods to experience the truth I'm observing. Without that presence, my observations become shadows or near-truths rather than precise moments. One of my favorite poems, "The Crow's Lament"—a six-stanza piece—was written entirely in the woods without any pen or paper. I had to memorize it word for word and write it down when I returned home.

But being present doesn't mean just transcribing what I see. My woodland poems balance imagination with accuracy—like fairy tales that contain emotional truth even when events are impossible. Will a chipmunk talk to me? No, but understanding chipmunk behavior, I can imagine what they would say if they could speak. They wouldn't say "Take me to McDonald's" but they might say "Leave my territory." The imagination must honor the truth of how these creatures behave, so the poems ring true to anyone who knows these animals and landscapes.

It varies considerably by day. Sometimes inspiration hits like a snowstorm—poems and ideas come fast and furiously. Other times I might sit for a long period and only develop a couple of haiku ideas. What I’ve learned is that it’s easier to write about something while being present than to write about something distant. There’s an immediacy and authenticity you can only capture when you’re in the moment you’re describing.

That's difficult to answer because the poems span about 30 years, and I never intended to write a book. I wrote individual poems over time, capturing moments and memories as they came. As I became more serious about publishing, I realized I had a body of poems that belonged together. I first assembled them as a gift for my mother, a retired English teacher in her 90s, who had always encouraged my writing. Eventually it became this book.

There are different types and levels of danger in the woods. Sure, I have seen wolves, bears, badgers, and coyotes, but they are afraid of humans.

The greatest risk is not taking care amidst the unpredictability of your environment. When you’re fresh, you are naturally cautious. When you’re obviously tired, you know it and adjust accordingly. But there’s a dangerous middle ground—when you’re fatigued but don’t recognize it. That’s when accidents are more likely to happen.

I was clearing a fallen tree with a chainsaw one afternoon, and fatigue made me sloppy—the running blade came in contact with my leg, cut through my pants and scraped the skin. It was a wake-up call about respecting the environment, my own limitations, (not to mention dangerous power tools.)

Deep familiarity with one place serves my poetry better than surface experience of many. I aim for these woodland poems to be visually and emotionally true, even when they’re imaginative. I take my prompts from where I am. I know the particular boulder that inspired “Two Boulders in Repose,” the exact stand of birch trees where the crows gather. That intimate knowledge allows me to write with precision and authenticity that I couldn’t achieve as a visitor to unfamiliar landscapes. When you know a place deeply, it becomes not just a setting but a collaborator in the creative process.

No, I live in an urban environment. The woods serve as my refuge and place for thinking and meditation. Having a sanctuary to escape to makes those woodland hours precious and intentional for me. When I’m there, it shifts my perspective. The poems emerge from that change in perception.

The difficulty is largely the same, but I find being surrounded by inspiration helps considerably. The words may come more easily in that environment, but the actual work of crafting a poem—finding the right rhythm, choosing precise language, building the structure—remains consistent whether I’m writing about woods or anything else. The difference lies in the abundance of material. In the woods, I’m never lacking for something to write about. Every season, every weather change, every small encounter offers new possibilities.

The changes are quite striking. As a boy walking in these woods in November, the snow would reach the top of my boots. Now, in recent years, there is rarely snow at that same time. Precipitation is less frequent but more severe—perhaps we get more rain overall, but it seems concentrated in intense storms rather than gentle, frequent rains. You can see the stress in July tree leaves, which are often dry and strained rather than lush. The vernal pools go through more dramatic cycles of high water and very little water. Our natural environment is having difficulty keeping up with the speed of climate change. These aren’t abstract climate statistics—they’re changes I’ve watched occur in a place I know season by season, year after year. As a nature poet, these environmental shifts deeply concern me.

An appreciation for nature—not just as a physical place but as a creative energy. I hope they discover the benefit of silence, quiet, and reflection as sanctuary from our hurried world. Our wild places are fragile and need our protection and care in our daily choices. If these poems help readers slow down enough to truly see the natural world around them, to value it not just for recreation but for the wisdom and peace it offers, then they’ve accomplished their purpose. We protect what we love, and we love what we take time to truly know.