I’m still here longing
for the summer days we had,
the world that we loved.

The moon this morning,
we would have been under it —
pale lonely sliver.

My life came undone —
I tore it down, built it back,
after I lost you.

We read every page,
I don’t want to forget it —
Mary Oliver.

Sundays, we rested,
after being out at dawn,
poems read out loud.

The delicacy
of the warm blooming garden,
the quiet of it.

Everything was new —
wildflower faces dusted
with yellow pollen.

Our lives were each day —
your story started with mine,
mine started with yours.

Each one was all ours —
every beautiful thing,
all blooming, flying.

In the flush of June
caterpillars are eating —
ready to transform.

Surprises each day —
the look between us that knew,
our luck and our luck.

Out under the sun,
the trees called to us to become
something different.

The days were golden,
following the curving path
through the woods and back.

More than anything,
you were happy, pleased with things,
ready for each day.

Last June’s flowers bloomed,
I didn’t see you were tired —
I didn’t want to.

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.