I picked some
flowers down
the edge
of
Willamette,
stem after stem
in my palm

and I whistled a
tune that my
father once
sang, but I couldn't
remember the
song.

Then I watched the
flowers
slowly wilt in
my fingers,
as high sun turned to
dark,
and city turned to
range

I held the loose
flowers
all tight in my
knuckles,
like the low river,
so ready to change

and humming his
sweet songs,
highs and the lows
I noticed
I'd
forgotten
the words

I was walking along
the banks of the
Willamette,
going south and
in song
like
the birds.

Screen door, sunny patio
swing with pillows
hanging feet
slices of clementines so
small in my
hands

bronze sun tea
and drooping plants
sprinklers spraying water
spritzing fresh cut
grass

late sun dusk
sleepy cats
never wanting
June to end

this is falling in love with a
friend