A garland left here,
made of bright dandelions
in the May forest.

Creeping buttercup
up and out of the cold earth,
rests on a sunned rock.

The pollen starts it,
bloodroot, trout lily, toothwort,
feeding the forest.

The perfect bloodroot—
pulled up through the caved-in tree
by the April sun.

Cutleaf toothwort bloom
drawn out in lean cold April,
the month of poems.

First hepatica
in the woods I’ve walked for years,
each time with new hopes.

Spear thistle wakes up
at the base of a tree stump
as birds sing to sun.

Spinning under sun—
light on September asters
and me and my dog.

Figuring things out,
we walk and plume thistle blooms
along the wild path.

The teasel comes in
for the Eastern Swallowtail,
soft-bodied, soft-eyed.

This field remembers
every full moon this year—
steps of deer through it.

Storms come, more storms come,
sandhill crane calls fill the air,
nodding thistle bursts.

Green-eyed trillium,
only here for a few days,
only seen by us.

Only family—
in these woods, our heads bowed soft,
sun in, just enough.

Geese on the river,
hepatica on the shore,
my dog and I walk.

September begins—
every flower in bloom,
feeling the goodbye.

A one day story:
wild carrot against blue sky,
opens like a cloud.

Covered in pollen,
a bee works a teasel bloom,
the breeze blows us both.

The poet's flower,
thin-stemmed wild carrot blooming
a constellation.

Purple thistle bloom
in a field of green silence
uncomplicates us.