year’s end
the bartender
blocks my reflection

winter day —
too tired to make the clouds
anything but clouds

first blossoms
a breeze shifts something
in each room

robins outside—
the piano tuner
works on middle C

cycling uphill —
the butterfly
passes me

chemotherapy
her children’s names
tattooed on her shoulder

doe and yearling
fade into the woods
hepatica in bloom

spring morning
the children’s game
of being quiet

sunny morning —
his basket full
of spinning pinwheels

cherry blossom hill . . .
children coming down
where there is no path