In my head all day,
I remember the dawn sky —
that brief gentleness.

Under dawn leaf buds,
there is no resolution —
the stars are still out.

In this darkest time,
up before dawn, still thankful
for ecstatic skies.

The sky has been scrubbed,
songbirds are back to singing —
worms on wet pavement.

The day comes in pink,
orange glows behind the trees,
the sky, ecstatic.

The window turns pink —
dawn in late February,
rain coming all day.

I’m always waiting —
light comes eventually,
changing everything.

Day after solstice,
winter sky pulls over us,
cold clouds of all kinds.

Jupiter was here
in this pink rising ether
under the full moon.

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.