business trip —

your side of the bed

full of books

summer’s first swim —

we take turns

holding our breath

ash on the garden table —

all that remains

of last night’s fireworks

still here in my mind

trying to get across —

small box turtle

unwelcome guest —

my path marked

by the hiss of geese

peony blossoms

in slow-motion burst —

you reach for my hand

fog so thick

even our echo

gets lost

a string of warm days,

tiny choirs in crescendo —

hatched nestlings

circles in the grass

where the deer slept last night —

I think of old friends

rain and sweat

mixing on the way down

spring run dj

even as we turn

blinding light still in our eyes —

the truth of his death

tulips full of sun —

for the first day in weeks

our umbrellas stay home

not even the rain

can quiet their chatter —

sparrows and neighbors

late spring —

strangers work hard at getting

the baby to wave

old wisteria

cut back almost to the ground

climbing high again

out of yogurt

no matter how much you’ve bought —

life with teenagers

late spring —

neighborhood dogs testing

the leashes’ limits

the long stretch

of our front yard bunny

reaching for clover

as green and as pink

as they possibly can —

bamboo and azaleas

calibrated —

these questions

that skim and bounce

library visit —

I try to leave with less

than I came with

seemingly settled

until a whirl of exodus —

flocking birds at dusk

Sweater? no sweater?

fingernail moon smiling down

as we flip-flop...

bright white clouds

tumbled and piled,

ready for folding

homesick

for the sound of rain

on my own roof

four nights

of not being able

to see the stars

all day drizzle —

the worms lose their grip

and drift downstream

he gets so close

to the backyard bunny —

morning slows to watch

the sudden slip

from rooted to undone —

weeding after rain

May Day —

bees come back

signaling trouble

(Revised; thanks to NaHaiWriMo participant Michael Smeer for his perceptive editorial suggestion.)