When we were still young
someone got to name the stars—
battles, hopes, and fears

The eye of the pine,
one of three in my mom’s yard,
watching over her.

Purple moss growing,
taking up every crevice—
a soft earthly life.

The lives of finches,
whole bodies in the blue sky,
unafraid of heights.

Yard full of birdsong,
we’re concerned about these things,
my mother and me.

I ring a small bell
every day for my plants,
they echo in blooms.

The eye is on me,
Robins waking on the grass,
singing like crazy.

Tender pussywillows,
soon there will be kinglets perched,
at home in this world.

Perfect beak-built nest,
survivor of ice and snow,
glows in late March sun.

Like a springtime deer,
soft-bodied and velvety—
cattail at the pond.

The first day of spring,
possessed with loving the land,
vernal pools, spring rains.

I am memory,
I am twenty years ago,
I am tomorrow.

Driving in rush hour—
stopped at a light we watch crows
chase off a red hawk.

Red trees like mountains,
I miss walking among them,
those tallest redwoods.

My geranium
repotted for spring—
palms up to the sun.

The simple secret:
feel loneliness and let go—
be thankful and kind.

Up with the half moon,
winking in the morning sky,
at home in darkness.

For the things I love
I’ll write poems tied to strings—
hang them from this tree.

Spring, nine days away,
mourning doves start their courtship,
despite morning snow.

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