Complicated clouds,
the watery veil of spring,
minds still fogged over.

No simple story—
broken beginnings and ends,
lost dreams, recorded.

Mornings in springtime,
all the things that take up space,
growing, making homes.

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

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

Goldfinches lit up,
changing color as I walk,
their song is yellow.

Remember that day,
it wasn’t so long ago,
when all was not lost.

Like skeins, veins, a shawl,
blackened bark breaking apart—
smooth skin underneath.

Rings, proof of life,
both righteous and riotous—
home to other lives.

My mother’s plum tree,
how many birds have perched here,
releasing petals?

Testimonial,
above speech and below song,
this spring moss takes flight.

Withheld salvation,
we’re not meant for this heartbreak,
this separation.

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

Trees—rising, falling,
lily colonies below,
ancestors, not ghosts.

The dreaming inside—
I wish I knew the dreamer,
she’s always hopeful.

April forest floor,
trout lily and May apple
meet the cloaked bloodroot.

Neil Young’s flying geese—
I know that melancholy,
missing what is home.

At the estate sale,
hyacinth blooming out front,
April’s first bright day.

Daffodills for sale
off of Huron River Drive,
two dollars a bunch.

Hundreds of teasels,
standing in their dormant state,
just waiting to turn.