The light of summer,
already starting to change,
rabbits hide in the scrub.

Days to contemplate,
to remember all that was —
the sun streaming in.

The world is alive,
there is so much mystery,
love to discover.

Every new good thing
makes me wonder what you’d think —
makes me think of you.

These were our places,
out at dawn, under the moon,
just us, birds waking.

You’re coming with me —
kingbirds, swifts, goldfinches, all
fly the path with us.

Mack, Mack, Mack, Mack, Mack.
I say your name in my head
and sometimes out loud.

Eight months without you.

Haiku for the past:
I can’t believe you’re not here,
I can’t believe it.

I deal in words, O —
read out loud for both of us,
our sole devotion.

The air on our warm limbs,
the luck of being alive —
the luck of the sun.

Blue jays in near trees,
I’m alone Sunday morning,
remembering you.

We were protected,
stretched out and safe together,
the clouds came and went.

There’s no going back,
you and the dandelion —
I still say your name.

You rolled in the sun,
kicking along the warm grass,
love was the third thing.

Cool under our feet,
each blade a constellation —
the long summer grass.

Love was the third thing —
the smell of the April air,
and our slow waking.

These deep summer days,
most things remind me of you —
crickets sing all day.

The tall creek grasses,
pink with sunrise and sunset —
you’re winding through them.

Your warmth is still here,
stories of you fill the air,
rest in good places.

Love was the third thing,
under any sun or sky,
we stood inside it.