watching the storm wind

push petals up the street —

death tolls rising

almost dark —

we try to name the birds

by their outlines

just for a moment —

forgetting who I am allowed

to be close to

seeming to have lost

its feeling for falling —

rain like a cloud

with every day

a little less to share —

memories of the real

at the bamboo’s edge

a fox kit peeking out —

signs of spring

seven weeks on —

at the base of the ironwood

a puddle that won’t dry

rain at the window —

I ask my mother

how long it will last

(Written during the period of pandemic-induced lockdown:

my mother lives about an hour southwest of me. When

it rains here where I live, the storm is often one that she

has already experienced. So she might have a guess as to

how long a storm I was in the middle of would last.)

front yards full of sun

blooming weeks ahead of us —

sneak preview

we hear 

but cannot see for the dark —

flags at half mast 

the house sparrow’s

speckled empty shell —

life beyond lockdown

nesting geese —

their whole world narrowed

to these five eggs

even at night —

we lie here trading stories

of sunny skies

tightly furled buds

at the tips of every branch —

he won’t talk to me

clear crisp night —

we speak the stars

into existence

soaking up sun

halfway up a dead tree —

two mourning doves

night walk in April —

the scent of blossoms

we can’t even see

strange habit —

leaving garden tools out to dry

just before it rains

tiny buds

asleep in the morning sun —

dreams of opening

late afternoon breeze —

most of the magnolia petals

already gone

empty streets —
pear blossoms falling
like slow rain

spring squall —

birds and branches

chased from the sky

how to hold 

a sharp knife —

father’s legacy

full moon —

ragged cloud blanket

shot through with holes

snapping the stalks

of last fall’s tallest flowers —

we work to make room

riding our bikes

through a new part of the park —

paths curving beyond sight

we leave the sidewalk

to walk in the empty road —

new ways in the moonlight

fiddlehead ferns

pushing up into the lawn —

my neighbor steps back

quick chats with strangers, 

the stop and start of schoolbuses —

we miss the world

one mockingbird

trying on another’s song —

who’s fooling who?