Painted catalpa,
Oriole nest overhead,
nestlings chirp for food.

Solitary figures—
stand of daisies at daybreak,
ox-eyed, resolute.

Safekeeping of trees—
holding light and memory,
arms full of songbirds.

Pink and yellow gilled,
from the fallen tree it blooms
like forest coral.

Thinking of my dad,
in unknown territory—
he’s still wandering.

Rain on the koi’s heads,
rain on the creamy foxglove—
swimming on this June day.

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...