| |
| |
| |
| Fireweed loves the yard |
| and the fire that conjured it |
| into the light. |
| |
| |
| And the scarlet elderberry |
| loves the old junkpile |
| it leans against. |
| |
| |
| The morning glory smothers everything |
| in an embrace: the fence, |
| the wood workbench, |
| the rusted steel. |
| |
| |
| Here's a summer day that's so slow |
| even the light |
| moves like honey; |
| |
| |
| Daisies jump fences |
| and then just mill around. |
| |
| |
| Here's a cherry tree that's so rich |
| when it offers its heart to the birds, |
| |
| every cherry |
| is a year of cherries. |
| |
| |
| |
