Rain on the foxglove,
on the koi’s orange heads, fins—
the June day swims by.

The monument bones—
a tree impossibly smooth,
scrubbed by the sand dune.

Long row of aspen,
these fervent bird cherries
blooming, singing wild.

The morning shipwreck,
pulled out of the firmament,
heaved on to dry land.

We aren’t alone—
setting out in the wet grass,
everything alive.

Green-eyed trillium,
only here for a few days,
only seen by us.

Lichen growing gold,
the shape of a butterfly—
on top of this dune.

Voices of birds float
above true forget-me-nots,
yellow buttercup.

The crow sorts things out,
cawing at me and the sun
and I don’t know what.

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.