Built for birds perching,
cattail flowers, full of seeds,
stand as tall as us.

Lighter than paper,
better than calligraphy,
pearl crescent butterfly.

Like a long-necked crane,
the nasturtium lifts its head
and decides to bloom.

Wild yellow foxglove,
heads down along its green spine,
secrets run inside.

June walk with my dog,
catalpa along the path,
we step on old blooms.

Cattails like flagpoles—
red-wings moving up and down
in ceremony.

Early sunflower,
finches sing in its new leaves,
sun and moon both out.

There is mystery
in the morning songs of birds
and deep, deep grasses.

A man and his dog—
walking on Sunday morning,
true love between them.

Life begins midway,
darkening with mystery—
the deepest forest.

Fading peony,
mid-June and almost finished,
the ants keep working.

A day is enough,
peonies older than me—
living a full life.

Up out of the marsh,
across the lake, wings an M—
a great blue heron.

On the lake's surface,
lily pads make a painting—
line, curve, and color.

Branches directing,
gingko like a weathervane,
no koi in your pond.

Raining on our heads,
raining on the wild iris,
purple more purple.

This small universe,
under leaves, under trees, sky—
up from underground.

At the red wing marsh,
wild daisies, me and my dog,
faces to the sun.

Silver lake and sky,
yellow hawkweed just in bloom,
we keep our secrets.

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