Your bright yellow head,
home with me now, sunflower—
we nod to the sun.

The found and lost love,
the glory of everything—
in the time we have.

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

If I had a yard
I would burn the paper stars
that I made last year.

Deep secrets and all,
on my interior wall—
hazy morning sun.