All of those bright years
under May, June, July skies —
under suns and stars.

Happy in the world,
your stomach on the summer grass,
birdsong in your ears.

Seven months without you, Mack

These broken places
somehow, slowly get stronger —
they’re beautiful, too.

We were at home here —
skimming along the wild things,
finding our way through.

Saturday sun patch,
your place to see what was next —
to go out and be.

Memory is strong —
the warmth of those morning suns,
the days still ahead.

The luck of those days,
not knowing where we came from —
it didn’t matter.

Those casual days,
in and out of our forests —
learning about love.

Wind coming on strong,
I still remember the day —
poetry out loud.

I imagine you,
I still take you everywhere,
I look for your face.

Mornings side by side,
the poetry in our ears,
dreaming of forests.

Summer keeps coming —
sun on blooming columbine,
clouds over the lake.

You were soft-eyed most,
my silent confidant who
I loved and I loved.

In the wilderness,
I think of you deepening
every step in it.

You’re in the stillness
whenever I stop to think —
the singing forest.

The sun on our heads,
I still think of it today —
our shared thankfulness.

The joy of it all —
milkweed globes just beginning,
the earth underfoot.

They are still all ours:
every discovery,
June lilac, milkweed.

You’re the missing thing,
amidst good things happening,
filling each silence.

Lying in cool grass,
on the earth and of the earth,
bees feed on clover.