Bloodroot and blue squill
open to woodpecker drums
in the spring forest.

Creeping buttercup
stitched with things not to forget,
the source of it all.

Snowbirds in and out
of the yellow autumn field,
their chatter comes first.

Soft, endless asters,
the bees are mad for them now—
and I’m mad for both.

It feels like magic,
the sun, the air in our lungs—
October asters.

If I could step out
of myself and into this
wild, blooming milkweed.

William Carlos Williams wrote
about a white field of wild carrot,
like this one, today.

Picking wild carrot,
by the side of unlined roads—
all seemed possible.

Arms full of flowers,
teasels under the sun, moon—
bees in love with them.

Next to the highway,
with soft magenta centers,
yellow mullein grows.

Solitary figures—
stand of daisies at daybreak,
ox-eyed, resolute.

Sweet woodruff blooming,
maybe here for centuries—
low, fragrant, knit-in.

Rain coming all day,
the trillium’s soft shoulders
spread out — unburdened.

The trillium stands
in the soft April forest,
its yellow heart glows.

The sun on their backs,
trout lilies and violas,
I live for these days.

One after the next,
Bloodroot springs up on this slope,
blue jays call and call.

Moon out this morning,
the asters just start to bloom,
early September.

Synching cicadas,
time their songs across the marsh,
summer, nearly done.

Foxglove face the field
of tall grass and wildflowers—
rabbits disappear.

In the cool morning
wild daisies grow in strong clumps—
a finch sings his heart.