Everything is wild
in the green humming meadow,
cinquefoil vibrate.

Fur warmed by the sun,
red clover and cinquefoil,
ecstatic grasses.

Milkweed globes forming—
I could break into cartwheels
under the June sky.

Learning from Whitman,
snapdragons bloom under clouds,
poetry seeps out.

It’s nearly midyear
and the zinnias keep coming,
I can’t know their depth.

The storm brought it down,
built by beaks, pressed with breastbones
into a safe place.

The June snapdragons,
with mouths like fledgling finches
and opening wings.

My zinnia grows
regardless, regardless, re
gardless, regardless.

Zinnias and pinks
lining forgotten walkways,
leading to closed doors.

June bursts in quickly,
green rises from the warm ground,
how can it be lost?

A catbird sings
while wedding vows are spoken
under the June sky.

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.