Her name, Carina,
the dog at the gallery
just north of Good Hart.

The dog on the bluff,
his back to the town, bay, boats,
stares back at the house.

The head of the bay,
every July flower blooms
morning, goodmorning.

Forgotten photo
of a patterned butterfly
in still meadow grass.

I’ve become something
while waiting in the darkness,
I didn’t expect.

I became something
while waiting in the darkness,
I didn’t expect.

Pages of things made,
spread out over years and years
are remaking me.

July sunflower,
a yellow like no other,
bursting with yellow.

Wings torn like paper,
the temporary wonders
of flight and being.

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.