The understory:
catbird song in the thicket,
iris in the marsh.

The story changes —
as we tell it, it becomes
something more beloved.

Ears the shape of leaves,
born probably within days,
the nervous fawn waits.

Weathered as the fence
the grayed turkeytail grows on,
like a false half moon.

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.