Ears filled with sunlight,
we sit in my mother’s yard,
waiting out heartbreak.

Letting each one go,
moments fold into the next—
always only now.

At the riverbank,
families of geese go by
the sprung-up mushrooms.

Arms full of flowers,
teasels under the sun, moon—
bees in love with them.

Carolina Wren,
his song over the river
lilts towards sadness.

The summer partners,
the bee and the teasel bring
each other to life.

My five dollar chair,
found on the street in Empire,
sanded, painted black.

Half moon of a moth
on the delicious milkweed,
sun setting ahead.

This beautiful world:
Kurt Vonnegut looking at the lake,
seeing everything.

Ann Arbor at night—
the blue of the blue hour,
carillon lit up.

This field remembers
every full moon this year—
steps of deer through it.

Last year’s sunflower,
time to return it to the dirt,
sparrows overhead.

Mystery runs deep—
life that we don’t understand,
it all slips away.

Moon in the morning,
not thrown there in a folk tale,
not made by our hands.

In the late morning,
poetry in his soft ears,
songs of birds seep in.

Storms come, more storms come,
sandhill crane calls fill the air,
nodding thistle bursts.

The world to explore,
my dog, connected to me,
nose in all flowers.

Pollen, like stardust,
steps around my small garden
on mourning doves’ feet.

I planned for the bees,
butterflies, finches, inch worms—
I wanted them all.

His song comes on loud—
the finch to the blank morning,
so intent, and then flight.