The stars mix with clouds,
it’s late, my dog and I walk,
both feeling the dark.

Sky over highway,
clouds solemn as a Rothko —
joyous and humble.

The urge to give up,
and then the sky does this —
and I crawl back out.

The sky, not yet blue,
I think I know about loss —
but of course, I don’t

The scent of wet earth
drifts into his sniffing nose,
us two, up early.

Dawn sky, a figure —
clouds like a pair of pink lungs,
the moon a freckle.

Looking up, amazed,
tired under the morning moon,
the grief before grief.

Taking our turn here —
trying not to lose our touch
under tender skies.

There’s grief in these trees,
clouds of the day still showing,
stars just coming out.

Up two hours ago,
I was here with Orion,
moon under the trees.

August will give way,
everything at its peak
will start to fall down.

In my head all day,
I remember the dawn sky —
that brief gentleness.

In this darkest time,
up before dawn, still thankful
for ecstatic skies.

The sky has been scrubbed,
songbirds are back to singing —
worms on wet pavement.

The day comes in pink,
orange glows behind the trees,
the sky, ecstatic.

I’m always waiting —
light comes eventually,
changing everything.

Day after solstice,
winter sky pulls over us,
cold clouds of all kinds.

We’re swallowed by it —
the clouds making a bright sheen
on the wide river.

Clouds in the river,
all of our words disappear
and go to nothing.

Swans float in the sky
over the September field,
the grass labyrinth.