It starts to set in,
spring winds trying to blow in,
the fleeting blue skies.

The full moon still hangs—
I look out on the morning,
crows follow their path.

Mackerel skies all day,
like a sheet of paper, drawn
steadfast, defiant.

The geese break their V
into two Vs over us,
wings the only sound.

Floating and honking,
one hundred forty three geese
make everywhere home.

Blue valley of sky
above the humming forest—
and our lives today.

Trees draw in sun,
changing at the cold lake’s edge,
filling it with leaves.

How to save this bird?
Every dark cloud after us,
danger everywhere.

Big October skies
breaking apart every day,
and rearranging.

Fenced-in sunflowers,
stumbling over each other—
first October day.

Clouds fall in the lake—
a poem read like a spell
takes me to its edge.

The luck in the sky—
unraveling with blue light,
breaking with the day.

Everything unnamed—
not a week, or day, or hour,
this is not Venus.

Crickets at their peak—
the making and unmaking
of the summer sky.

My mind is still dark,
night stretches into morning—
the room blooms with sun.

August skies fall in,
pulling all the wildflowers—
faces always up.

I say to myself,
I say to everyone:
see this, don't forget.

Stormy July sky,
we see it coming all day,
waiting with sparrows.

The sky this morning—
no poems or sunrise yet,
and stars, still in us.

Moon in the morning,
not thrown there in a folk tale,
not made by our hands.