These days in the grass,
I miss them when I’m in them,
life taking in life.

My mother’s garden,
spring poppies and peony,
always irises.

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

Antlers coming in,
among the marsh marigold,
the young deer crosses.

Yellow-tongued iris,
forget-me-nots at its feet,
untroubled by death.

Inside, collected,
pieces of the earth with me
now until my end.

Don’t forget the luck:
the raspberries are blooming,
air filled with birdsong.

I step back and forth
between doorways and porches,
forests and beaches.

Many moons ago
a tree fell on this beach,
only the knot left.

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

Birds chatter and sing
for Sunday morning, thankful,
sunlight breaks apart.

How does a place die?
the same way that it lives: change,
rain, sun, memory.

Saying, be careful,
the eloquence of foresight,
speaks in each moment.

The place starts to fade,
now sidewalks lead nowhere,
the train doesn’t go.

The imprint of waves
makes a mountain range in sand,
momentarily.

Spring flowers in bloom
at the closed-down restaurant,
iris, violet.

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.