Of course, a haiku,
a raindrop on the rapids,
a lifetime in it.

This goose is grieving,
he survives on foxtail grass,
eaten fast, alone.

Rain into the creek,
bees fall asleep on Wingstem,
deer blend with the field.

Everything at work,
overnight and all day long —
slug high in mustard.

Clouds over the creek,
the tree that catches light, dark —
only crickets sing.

for Annie Dillard

Uncontainable
sky over this paradise
of grief and beauty.

Symbolic to me —
but just deer living their lives,
seasons changing fast.

The world says, “don't wait,”
sun rising over two deer,
alert at the creek.

The monarch hangs like sunlight
from the tall purple loosestrife
that was made for him.

I’ll call it good luck —
a red-legged grasshopper
sunning at my door.

Your ashes falling
from our hands to the creek grass,
a fish leaps out, in.

for Mack

Your ashes falling
from our hands to the creek grass,
you’re everywhere now.

for Mack

Your ashes falling
from our hands to the creek grass,
a butterfly lands.

for Mack

Your ashes falling
from our hands to the creek grass
where small crane’s-bill grows.

for Mack

Labor Day morning,
church bells a minute early,
then the train whistle.

The creek is rain deep,
clouds caught above and below,
blue sky, an eyebrow.

Memory, that is
this wrecking ball in my chest,
breaks the sky, the day.

Spotted touch-me-not
nods into goldenrod and
late purple loosestrife.

September starts hot,
morning fog hangs a long time —
the heron fishes.

A great poet dies,
we practice resurrection,
his last August sun.

for Wendell Berry