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.

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.