Sun comes in the room,
details of the day emerge,
mystery persists.

If this was my barn,
I would paint in it all day,
life, coming and going.

I bloom like a bowl,
a rose-breasted grosbeak sings
sharp to the May sun.

I had six goslings
now I am mourned, struck, broken—
this year on the pond.

In the greening field—
peace follows him everywhere,
my dog’s gentle steps.

Yes, lilacs, yes, yes—
delicate with a fat bee,
buzzing, saying yes.

Knowing I save them,
my mother gave me this stamp
that small captured mood.

They come in slowly,
the gentle and beautiful
silken gifts of May.

Coiled around a ball,
among stones around the barn,
a snake tastes the air.

Silken, like a bloom,
the stream of forget-me-nots,
in earliest spring.

In this still forest
an Eastern Towhee kicks leaves
on the warming ground.

Next to its dead mate,
the silent mourning goose sits,
just as spring begins.

My mother and I
stop to admire these tulips,
they scent the courtyard.

Geese on the river,
hepatica on the shore,
my dog and I walk.

Jack-in-the-pulpit,
like the most beautiful thing
a person could make.

Like a monument,
engraved with marks from each year,
the gray-barked beech stands.

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.