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

The gifts of living:
to write poems every day,
to remember it.

Clover hums with bees,
my dog sits and listens with
his unsaddened heart.

One sunflower turns
away from the other twelve—
face towards the courtyard.

An unsettled day,
Robins chase fireflies at dusk,
flash—a light goes out.

Sunflower at night
under July thunderstorms,
before the crickets.

Zinnia, nasturtium,
marigolds from last year's seeds,
four round dianthus.

Rows of dianthus,
I had them line my walkway,
called them Sweet William.

Blue heron above,
green teasel out this morning,
my dog's nose wakes up.

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

Open to the sky,
the same color as the sun,
all day you follow.

Sunflower, awake
for the first time under clouds,
rain coming in soon.

Morning sunflower,
I'm up sorting my worries—
you're not awake yet.

June-blooming roses,
my heart is no longer full—
I have a keepsake.

Early wild carrot,
purple heart at the center,
always meaning well.

Sharp, confiding thing,
moth on new pink milkweed blooms—
something that makes sense.

The red-wing pair flies
sensing the sky not as sky,
the wind not as wind.

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.