That time in spring, the sweetness
the yellow green of emerging leaves
the popping and exploding
the bright shattering of petals
lilac flowers in our hands.

Walking the woods with you
tracing deer trails for hours
along the rocky river bank
and in the sycamore forest
we saw the silver shining trees
impossibly branched and reaching
mingling in the vast blue sky.

In the deeper woods, mysterious birds
sang incessant songs, ancient and forlorn
always their singing is reminding me
of the endless beauty to be found
always a deeper feeling of love.

The goldenrod now half exploded, on the edge
flowers cut across the path leading to the bracken woods
from the long grass, three young deer emerge
from the mist, into the forest they disappear
to shelter under fir and cedar boughs
just days old, they rest on mossy loam
I trace their perfect footprints
I want to follow them home.

On days like this
cool, with little winds
desert birds forage for sticks
they build nests perched in cactus
some build green in palo verde trees
always I think of baby birds in spring
hatchlings, the fledglings that fly
I travel far beyond the noise of towns
watch the movement of cooling clouds
the roundness of rain upon the ground
the grey banked scurrilous skies
of hurried birds, their silhouettes before a storm
daisies that close, cold amid the stones
beneath where snakes and lizards go
slither and crawl in this landscape of saguaros
and I, ever tethered can only dream to fly.

Sitting under these trees waiting
maybe all day for the moon
or the washing rain upon my face
lay upon this mossy grass, all sunk in
pay no mind to where I've been
no matter - awake or dreaming
I fly into the forest with birds
waxwings, Bohemians
under maple leaves
sun dappled, shining
or perched in the pinewoods
a safe place to hide away
a heart that's dying.

With eyes, like owls - great horned or a night cat's
his arms, tree branched, heavy laden, strong
with legs, sturdy pillars for mountains climbed
hair of silken silver brushed upon my skin
his essence, forged by nights and wildfire pines
his reddened lips, softly melting into mine.

All day from the canyon
the wind birds hover
the dance of pines,
the free water.

The long grass that flows,
green seaweed of the river.
September's early leaves
paper, gold upon the water,
wild yellow petals.

The river's edge
shines with flowers, fully petaled
looking out upon the water
all day the blue, green, yellow of the water
all day until the red, gold of the evening sun.