They are still all ours:
every discovery,
June lilac, milkweed.

Hope returns in May,
though you never lost your hope —
under any sun.

The softness of May,
you, out in front and looking,
I imagine it.

The joy of April
among the dandelions
pulled up by rain, sun.

You’ve been gone four months,
I still see you out ahead
looking back at me.

Spring leaf bud casings
cover the floor of the woods,
soft under your feet.

Mallard like lightning,
out of the green pond in May —
we walk in the sun.

Color coming in,
a Robin in every tree —
each one breathing life.

Cheer, cheer, cheer, cheer, cheer,
the cardinal, relentless
in these darkest times.

Under dawn leaf buds,
there is no resolution —
the stars are still out.

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

Trout lily and moss
colonies under our feet,
feeding the season.

Skunk cabbage shoulders
nudging out of the spring swamp
for winter-hungry deer.

All of spring is here:
the slow rejuvenation
of the forest pond.

Voices of birds float
above true forget-me-nots,
yellow buttercup.

I had six goslings
now I am mourned, struck, broken—
this year on the pond.

Silken, like a bloom,
the stream of forget-me-nots,
in earliest spring.

Next to its dead mate,
the silent mourning goose sits,
just as spring begins.

My mother and I
stop to admire these tulips,
they scent the courtyard.

Like a monument,
engraved with marks from each year,
the gray-barked beech stands.