I’m wrongly forlorn,
the wonderland we’ve been in
has never been lost.

We hear her crunching
in a patch of tall thistle
as we walk out our grief.

His nose is awake —
under every green leaf,
sadness and delight.

There’s grief in these trees,
clouds of the day still showing,
stars just coming out.

The water lily,
it’s embroidered in, tied off,
like a French knot.

Up two hours ago,
I was here with Orion,
moon under the trees.

Nose first, he’s in love
bee and the water lily,
only three in bloom.

August will give way,
everything at its peak
will start to fall down.

This river is me,
I could shape it with my hands,
minnows for the heart.

Hawks and kingfishers
make rounds above the river
while we change below.

Awake in the dark,
Jupiter and Venus rest,
the story unfolds.

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.