These arms can’t protect—
hung for comfort anyway,
sun, low in the sky.

The gilled, gilded world,
decorated with wisdom—
beauty overlooked.

There is a way out,
poets know there’s a way through—
follow the poets.

There’s a deer in here,
eating at the forest’s edge,
wild carrot, bee balm.

Nest out of the tree,
my guess, made by goldfinches,
I’ve seen them sing here.

We live for poems,
we live for all the beauty,
we live for nature.

Glowing nasturtium,
leaf, bug-bitten in a heart,
a deep, silken life.

Stormy July sky,
we see it coming all day,
waiting with sparrows.

The sky this morning—
no poems or sunrise yet,
and stars, still in us.

The field is waist deep,
taller than me in some places,
rabbits in darkness.

Ears filled with sunlight,
we sit in my mother’s yard,
waiting out heartbreak.

Letting each one go,
moments fold into the next—
always only now.

At the riverbank,
families of geese go by
the sprung-up mushrooms.

Arms full of flowers,
teasels under the sun, moon—
bees in love with them.

Carolina Wren,
his song over the river
lilts towards sadness.

The summer partners,
the bee and the teasel bring
each other to life.

My five dollar chair,
found on the street in Empire,
sanded, painted black.

Half moon of a moth
on the delicious milkweed,
sun setting ahead.

This beautiful world:
Kurt Vonnegut looking at the lake,
seeing everything.

Ann Arbor at night—
the blue of the blue hour,
carillon lit up.