It’s a lot like love,
the grasses and morning sun,
the urge to sink in.

For the afternoon,
fritillaries on milkweed
in this otherworld.

Faint pink blooms starting
on the green June new teasel,
its life in this spot.

Orange and glowing
with calligraphy-marked wings,
we’re here together.

I don’t need more proof,
I’m not owed anything more
of luck and beauty.

Soft June grasses grow —
filling with insect noises
at the railroad tracks.

Sun on her gold fur,
diaphanous in the trees,
briefly, we meet here.

To remember well
what was lost in darkness,
unbalanced by light.

We walk with worries,
the clouds meet in the river
to see themselves clear.

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.