Eastern swallowtail
lands like a parachutist
who can go back up.

An uncertain light,
tentative in the tall grass,
purple, and then blue.

A face made of seeds,
body and head grown from seed,
of and for the earth.

These wings are stately,
I can hear the sound they make
circling the milkweed.

Swamp milkweed, monarch,
evening at the river,
my dog in tall grass.

Purple blooms sprouting,
the wild teasel and the bee
meet each other here.

The moon out, pre-dawn,
it is to me, as always,
silent companion.

A way in, ways in,
I’m already a ways in,
the turn can be hard.

Before a hoof stomp,
the young deer feeds and watches
as I’m watching him.

Pink sky at daybreak,
a song sparrow lives nearby
and sings all day long.

Love comes from somewhere,
the walk through night grasses,
the July firefly.

The premonition
told her to prepare herself
for silent mornings.

Their house with a view,
two poets watch the mountain,
the daybreak colors.

The thoroughgoing
of the June fritillary
on the milkweed bloom.

Sunday morning spent
decoding the messages
from the otherworld.

Milkweed universe—
double-dressed scented flowers,
all insects in love.

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.