Warmth only seems done / along with the summer sun, / but it has begun.

The star that shone bright / as a bone sniffed out of sight / got unearthed by night.

The snow knows no bounds / except warmth that grinds it down, / into tearful sounds.

Wrung out from the clouds / the sun plants itself in ground / and sky blossoms stars

This morning the sun / rose on time, got to work, shone, / still shines through curtains.

Stars float on oceans / winter nights, swimming with moonlight / whether low, high tide.

Compassion's journey / isn't charted by my mood, / which it first must flee.

This bloom will house bees, / is red as frostbitten skin / warmed later by sun.

Lilt of train whistles / babble across pines, creeks, years, / all traveled distance.

Transparent as glass / rain always cuts across sky / that appears puddled.

Start the fire slow / to better see its dreaming / of the charred abyss.

The green grass and shade / didn't dare sit on the swing / the wind lingers on.

A stick's precipice / offers a greener sendoff / than my fossil hand.