Milkweed mechanics —
the stalk, husk, seed, fluff, and wind,
like a bird perched, flown.

Acorns like jewels,
smooth talismans in my hand,
crunch under our feet.

June bursts in quickly,
green rises from the warm ground,
how can it be lost?

Ears the shape of leaves,
born probably within days,
the nervous fawn waits.

Cottonwood seeds float,
spring birds tell us it’s safe here,
our ears fill with song.

And what’s my purpose,
bright sky over the river,
clouds lift all day long.

Nighthawk at the beach
hidden in the scrubby trees,
singing to last light.

The small spot we fished—
this is how I picture it,
glittering, hopeful.

Creeping buttercup
stitched with things not to forget,
the source of it all.

Yellow chanterelles,
simple as a century,
on this unwalked path.

Evening spreads out
into every crevice
of the spring river.

Vulnerable days
among the rocks and water,
the warming spring grass.

A garland left here,
made of bright dandelions
in the May forest.

Birds migrating in,
different songs in each tree
and both my dog’s ears.

Every bird singing,
the river flush with spring rain,
we know we’re lucky.

Tiny in the trees,
warbler and oriole song
fills the evening sky.

This light isn’t mine
coming through the bright young trees,
but I’m part of it.

From oblivion
come the broke open seedhusks
on dark forest floors.

Its own universe,
green lichen glows on a rock.
unlike a named thing.

It comes in quiet,
greening from April to May,
the thicket fills in.