white dogwood blossoms —
a poem we learned by heart
when we were children

the drop inside me
when the blurry dot resolves
and becomes you

almost feeling
like a kiss as they pop —
blown soap bubbles

we interrupt
our quiet indoor life
for some moon basking

pushing on up 
through last year's leaves —
wildflowers

drawing a pencil
down the edge of a ruler
as my father did

why are some plants weeds?
our five year-old neighbor
and her good questions

nearly full moon —
counting the days 
until immunity

dreams of spring
pressed into the pavement 
by last night's rain

frost in the forecast —
all over town, people praying
for the blossoms

trying to feel
the sun's warmth
in my bones

forest violets —
I pick you a bouquet
with my gaze

lawnmowers growling
and the scent of onion grass —
sure signs of spring

summer dangling
right where we left it —
lavender stalks

every night
showing us what we wanted —
a little more moon

my recent reading —
layers of rolling grey clouds
no sign of the sun

light spring drizzle — 
the chorus of mate-seekers
doesn't even waver

vine-choked trees —
we feel the stress and grief
working on us

the color of hope —
annuals coming back to life
after all 

finding at last in you
what I didn't even know
to wish for

young leaves —
the beginnings
of a new language

three notes repeating —
the white-throated sparrow
clears her throat

our first sighting
in the wild this year —
teens in shorts

everywhere I look —
fewer of us
than there should be

nesting plovers —
understanding ourselves
as dangerous

color works its charm —
we tell the weeds
they can stay

Easter morning —
mud at the pond's edge
dotted with frog eggs

spring break —
dads playing driveway defense
girls making their shots

saturated ground —
the sorrow comes welling up
whenever I'm still

busy grackles
telling each other off  
dark wings glinting blue