The skeleton trees
lie soft under the dune sand—
light fades, wind changing.

Like Klimt’s birch forest,
this one made of dot, line, light,
made full by breathing.

June begins with phlox,
scented soft masses welcome
the age of poets.

Sweet woodruff blooming,
maybe here for centuries—
low, fragrant, knit-in.

We stop to smell them,
all colors of spring lilacs,
if this isn’t nice...

Don’t forget my face,
the life I was trying for—
the poems I wrote.

The memory gift,
forming and falling away—
becoming leaf, skin.

Remember this path,
the life you are thankful for,
no more time wasted.

Sand cherry blooming
on top of the tallest dune,
bees work them all day.

The light on this dune
passes through me and becomes
the light in my mind.

Only family—
in these woods, our heads bowed soft,
sun in, just enough.

The lighthouse flowers
hold sunlight in their soft heads,
the shutter curls light.

Hot flickering gold,
a sunrise like Edvard Munch—
birds still sing to it.

At sunrise I found
a perfect Robin’s egg perched
on the bluff’s edge.

Deer jumped just for fun
into this dark spring forest—
we laugh as we walk.

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.