During an illness,
I think of planting flowers
with my dog in spring.

The mist of the stars,
I’m underneath it most times,
in the cold quiet.

These in-between days,
out of time and out of sorts,
lost track of the sky.

The crush of feeling,
like a bright and rising cloud
crickets, down here, sing.

All of this is ours,
wood violet, goldenrod —
the low sun today.

On our way to walk,
in the sun on Sunday night,
we smile all the way.

I think of you first —
Jupiter and Venus lie
back to back at dawn.

Sleeping, both paws curled,
I feel his sleep deep inside,
like a communion.

A Thursday evening —
we’re in the world together,
the sun gathers clouds.

The July clover,
soft under your soft body —
we watch the garden.

August, your ears up,
the cicadas sing all day,
you let it all in.

Here in the soft grass,
every moment in this one,
the luck that we have.

The hydrangea blooms
in a spot we’ve stood under
a cold April moon.

Loyal Parhelion
beside the sun sprawled brightly,
beloved sun dog.

Your ears like velvet,
beloved, paws in the soft grass,
nose catching the air.

Arms out with rayed hands,
the gesture of the sundew
is matter-of-fact.

Earnest globe thistle
grows tall for the goldfinches —
meets them in the air.

All body and bow,
curved and lithe and calm in the
green understory.

The thought left unsaid,
rehashing it all morning
and letting it go.

Lily pads like suns,
orbit the one white bloom,
crickets sing all day.