pieces of the week still in my pocket tiny seeds of mint
traffic update the green streak of a hummingbird
I believe the lie a plastic bag caught in bare branches
baby birds on the driveway grandma says put rocks on their throats
searching for the lost piece the lizard in the dove’s feet
a storm develops in another hemisphere while a hawk hovers
at the wedding wondering how dad feels a few minutes before
when I open my mouth invisible flies from a thousand years ago
the concrete of insomnia in my head I try to make spring
can’t tell the sweat from the rain sidewalks crumble
in morning fog the cardinal’s call is a ray gun
unable to sync our infinite aches the evening ends
the storm passed all the favorite songs I’ve forgotten
all along the mountain trail pointing out my Wikipedia
rain changes the pattern of pollen the slideshow of my sneeze
who says I have to break out of this shell the nameless flowers just so
a plastic bag rolls downhill I try to catch my breath
chipping away at this stone one day I’ll see the sky
no one to blame but carnival sounds from the hill
old branches tipped with light green every part of me goes for a stroll
under the moon ice crystals on the old black notebook
the little sparrow sings all the stones in my throat
the darkness of the water in the sky still waiting
motorcycle rumble under spring clouds I slowly ready for work
I try on all my clothes in the dream deep ruts in the snow
nothing today but this soft song tulip petals part and fall
a dusting of green pollen the music inside me now decades old
a cool breeze from the grey sky maybe none of the above
a few green letters and a different world blooms
conjugating irregular verbs into the night raccoon fight
a hole in my reason the sparrow changes pitch
down the rocks a single red berry outpaces me
white flowers underground what mask to wear today
apologizing to the past me who looks away spring clouds
out of breath half way up I remember I am the hill
light green leaves mix with the dark blossoms fade away
rewriting the sympathy card the silence of oak flowers
juxtaposition TK the alarm fills the sky with birds
we don’t talk about gutters anymore the flat bottoms of clouds
the colors of orchids bromeliads and know-it-alls
easter I fill a pen with green ink
the sharp stones of the mountain trail in my mind
branches just budding saying hello though I didn’t mean to
a bird peeks at me through the window another morning gone
cresting the hill a single daffodil late for the party
tulips in the soft breeze still losing my hair
the birds startled awake crying into the dawn
I try to put the eraser aside the bee’s legs thick with pollen
beneath the flowering cherry my future hidden in the roots
the pain in my back and notebook all for this little white flower
a hawk in morning light flies through the window of the train
bare branches the house that celebrated every holiday
I remember the meeting and curse at no one my tulips and clouds
long cones on the old pine the morning air fills with exhaust
spring rain the cold flesh of tonight’s dinner
other animals 