nesting season —
as I walk, small blue half domes
evidence of hatching

another Sunday —
the flight of zinnia seeds
from my open hand

coordinated poison —
I wait for news of my friends'
latest chemo rounds

early morning fog —
our sense of the road ahead
reduced to guesswork

each iris stalk
racing in its quiet way
to be first to bloom

humming along
to a song I don't know yet —
carried by the chords

catbirds at dusk
tuning up their instruments
deep in the bamboo

hazy flower moon — 
we find our way forward
through remembered light

hand-scattering 

zinnia seeds like a prayer

over rain damp earth

in the pink of it
a tiny hitchhiking ant — 
peony bouquet

tiny house sparrows
gauging the width of our vents
by slipping inside

silently jostling
for the best view of the sun —
azalea blossoms

a figure in black
walking at the edge of the road  —
dotting a solid line

highway hotel —
all night the sound of trucks
braking down the hill

the level of fear
rising like groundwater  —
trapped with no runway

describing branches
so we can help each other
find the green heron

heavy-hearted —
we pull out the old sorrows
to compare notes

spring peepers
insistently reminding —
we needed this rain

Mayday, mayday —
learning what we would do
in an emergency