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.

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.