Branch to branch to branch,
moving along as we walk—
Goldfinches sing here.

I say to myself,
I say to everyone:
see this, don't forget.

If I could step out
of myself and into this
wild, blooming milkweed.

Remember the words,
remember the poets well,
the attempt, at least.

Years of making things,
trying to make sense of days—
sometimes a blank mind.

Friday on the bridge,
we see the flowing, blooming,
fantastical world.

The velvety bank
of the full, bustling river,
lush with memory.

William Carlos Williams wrote
about a white field of wild carrot,
like this one, today.

The teasel comes in
for the Eastern Swallowtail,
soft-bodied, soft-eyed.

The August luster
of the sunflower head—
pouring out and in.

The feel of August—
morning glories on the rail,
the color of sky.

Your bright yellow head,
home with me now, sunflower—
we nod to the sun.

July dragonfly,
living a life with see-through wings
drawn with such detail.

Picking wild carrot,
by the side of unlined roads—
all seemed possible.

These arms can’t protect—
hung for comfort anyway,
sun, low in the sky.

The gilled, gilded world,
decorated with wisdom—
beauty overlooked.

There is a way out,
poets know there’s a way through—
follow the poets.

There’s a deer in here,
eating at the forest’s edge,
wild carrot, bee balm.

Nest out of the tree,
my guess, made by goldfinches,
I’ve seen them sing here.

We live for poems,
we live for all the beauty,
we live for nature.