Branches hold the moon —
geese call and fill the whole sky
with sounds of leaving.

Each one an arrow,
seven geese honk in a V —
a world of their own.

The dawn like a grave
of the most beloved one
we didn’t protect.

These trivial things
that distract me from what moves
mysteriously.

I call myself back
from the depths, the dark places,
for a second chance.

It comes in with grace —
daybreak — under the vapor,
I’m fooled, under clouds.

Up with the half moon,
moving clouds, stars, mystery,
I disappear here.

Clouds in the river,
all of our words disappear
and go to nothing.

Under sunflowers,
our reconciliation
happens silently.

Orion fades out
as early daybreak seeps in,
we move under it.

The sky telling me
that September is coming,
I must change again.

My arms, full of stars,
by morning they’ve disappeared,
shining in my mind.

Looking for answers —
the moon, still sharp in the sky,
it says, “stop looking.”

The ecstatic clouds,
the ecstatic dune grasses,
meet well in the sky.

The sky in the pond
doubles the soft, changing day,
ecstatic with blue.

Pink sky at daybreak,
a song sparrow lives nearby
and sings all day long.

Learning from Whitman,
snapdragons bloom under clouds,
poetry seeps out.

It starts to set in,
spring winds trying to blow in,
the fleeting blue skies.

The full moon still hangs—
I look out on the morning,
crows follow their path.

Mackerel skies all day,
like a sheet of paper, drawn
steadfast, defiant.