Physics and poems —
we hold tight and we hold loose,
in spite of the end.

Leaving, not leaving,
it’s regret we can’t outrun —
being left behind.

What’s still to be made,
all that’s still to be found out,
lost in this forest.

Somehow light gets in,
accepting the short gray days,
waking in darkness.

The day’s quiddity—
optimism made of sun,
things that feel like sun.

Lavender cuttings,
after the last summer bee,
from my mom's garden.

Failed watercolor,
folded, becomes like a star
or a lost flower.

Happy reunion
between my mind and body
while making this star.