I’m greedy for time,
the circle won’t be broken,
sun dogs in the sky.

Milkweed mountain range —
inside, I see us walking,
as in all summers.

I’ll take a good day,
strong and walking — recovered —
October’s warm sun.

The sky like a sail
over the green cattail pond,
each blowing apart.

Still life in dark times,
pollen collects on shoulders
of the sunflowers.

Hawks and kingfishers
make rounds above the river
while we change below.

When we admit love,
the understory wakes up,
poems are written.

November sun breaks
weakly on the cold river —
everything changes.

At the evening marsh,
the sun and the lily pads
float in the grasses.

Low October sun
lights every changing thing,
including us two.

Evening sun falls
behind the shimmering trees,
you say, “Let's turn back.”

At the museum—
beautiful things and ghosts here,
sunshine on Detroit.

What would I become
if I laid down by this tree?
Sun, teaching me things.

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

Goldfinches lit up,
changing color as I walk,
their song is yellow.

Tender perfect things,
form and disappear, re-form,
beautiful, each time.