tendrils reaching

in a slow motion spiral —

wisteria

with one open eye

the cat glares us

to silence

catching strangers’ eyes

shaking our heads together —

crazy heatwave

taking a deep breath

amongst linden blossoms

back home just in time

(In honor of beloved friend Karen Schiff's return home.)

two bats

giving the moths a reprieve

chase each other

(Hattip to Gayla Trail, whose tweet inspired this haiku.)

the cat’s path

mapped out by the sound

of angry robins

peonies bent low —

again this year, rain got to them

before we could

at last, feeling

safe enough to unfurl —

purple irises

no longer splintered

sunlight where the storm

downed old trees

falling asleep

to the sound

of her breathing

forty years later

still able to feel the sting

of fiberglass

(Thinking of my dad, who built a sailboat and found ways for me to help, even though I was only five.)

valley fog —

I welcome the excuse

to slow down

turning on a light

so I’ll feel welcomed

when I return

late night
apology to the sky
I forgot to notice

even in the dark,
incontrovertibly white —
spirea blossoms

stitches —
happy to feel
the itch of healing

allergy season —
the green sheen of pollen
over the world

blossoms in her hair —
all morning we conspire
not to tell her

after the fall —
figuring out how to sleep
on the other side

kitchen echoes —
cooking the way she did
without knowing it

we felt it, just now —
the mist that will be
tomorrow's dew

her hand touches mine —
between us
I feel a chord change

the stretch

(as you swerve towards puddles)

of your mother's arm

this all-day rain —
the imagined joy of plants
a steady chorus

kindergartners
picking dandelions
for each other

coaxing
the spider back outside —
my job, somehow

one day too late —
the dandelions have all
gone to seed

no stars tonight —

slow-pulling it

past the night workmen

everyone else's
azaleas blooming first —
marriage equality

easy travel —

train whistle

as time machine

lilac scent

stuck in my throat

just like last year