The scent of lilacs in front
of your nose as you sit
on a park bench. The flow of

water

spilling down and down
into each of the seven pools.
The morning breeze breathing

slowly across your arms.
The birds you hear
but don’t see. Trees

everywhere. In fact, every
single tree you’ve ever met.
One brood of ducklings following

their mama into the lake.
And a raft of them
already swimming with theirs.

Spotting a pond
through the woods.
A slight bend

in the trail. The high contrast
between leaf and bark
against the sky. Remembering

to pause long enough
to catch and release
all of this.

The jersey that runner wears.
The shoes of another.

A canoe in the rack.
Dandelions everywhere.

The (yellow) jackets
on the backs

of a man and a woman paddling
a kayak in the channel.

Yield

and dead end
signs. Willow tree

vines that drape over
the lake edge. The house

beside the church—
bells mid-chime.

A row of garage doors.
A rabbit in the pocket

park grass (no, that’s tan
fur). The western arch

on the pedestrian bridge
that shakes hands

with its eastern mirror image.
Your equilibrium sometimes.

An octave of shutters adorns
a Mount Curve house.
Seven red charm hybrid peonies
burst open in the Garden
of the Seasons. Six
porch chairs
left on a patio
(two Adirondacks).

A quintet of metal pieces
forms an abstract sculpture
on a lawn that refuses
to declare
“No mow May.”

A quartet of stop signs
stands tall.
A trio of doors.
One monitors

a duet of fire hydrants
on opposite street corners

as they reach toward one another
with a longing that cannot be

erased. A lone leash

attached to a white dog. Or,
a solitary red necked

e-scooter I so want
to tip over. Or,
the MINI Cooper

convertible parked
sideways in front
of my apartment building.
And, ever so rarely,

my equilibrium.

Some will look for life
in a utility hole.

Some will find only futility
buried beneath. A lid

tragically misplaced.
Some will not

know what to do
with such broad shoulders.

How to tilt and shrug

to fit in. Some won’t try
till the others leave and the light

below begins to leak through. Begins
to bathe the street

in amber. Tree resin sighs
in the air. None will notice

how she struggles
to trace the shape of the island

in lilac petals that cover the sidewalk.
How desperate she has become

to prove she does not forget
during the times between.

And how her hand shakes
from the shadowy burden.

A face almost always hidden.
One day someone will show her

how to hold a one-way ticket
tightly enough to keep it

from blowing away
on a windy night crossing.

If only you could
reclaim these bricks
before they disintegrate. If

only you could rescue
the salt from your spit
before its echo

of shapes dissolves
into the shadows
of oaks. If only you could

dodge the edges. If
the first egret you see
this season chases

a red-winged blackbird
off the fishing pier.
If a gentle morning breeze

chases pink
lilac petals
to the ground. Green

chases away
the identity of trees, and if
my words chase you.

It comes after
she smells the prairie’s late
winter breath
before she opens her eyes.

It comes after being
so wound up
she forgets
to check the wound.

It comes after invisible
healing overnight
that coincides with
banging from the apartment

above, moaning
next door. A wild animal
climbs up
the drain pipe.

It comes after the dancing
gets out of hand.
And the driver has taken
the long way home.

It comes at the moment
the backseat
ruminator (that’s me)
notices how straight

and narrow

and true
the trail looks
from here
come spring.

A new incline on an old route
leads east as a western wind
blows through the tops
of birches. Bottom feeders stir
in a creek. Mud dries
in a wetland nearby. As far
as she is concerned, the day
holds only carefree moments
dropping everywhere. Nowhere
left to hide from the bounty.

She wears indigo
fog on her feet. Gently.

Everything crumbles
at its own pace. She

survives

it. No one knows
why so sad now.

This love/hate relationship
with the nearest star.

Decades pass
at their own pace. The sand

is so cool

between her toes.
She can barely distinguish

the ferry’s form
as it breaks

the inky horizon. So much to bless
about that boat and its ancestors.

Without them,
she would have no reason

for this island-shaped
tattoo covering her heart.

I am honored to have two poems (“What If Blue” on page 21 and “This Scent” on page 78) published in Blue: A Humana Obscura Anthology.

Through poetry and art, this anthology explores the many shades of blue as a reflection of both the world around us and the worlds within us. A portion of submission fees for this anthology were donated to Ocean Conservancy, a nonprofit environmental advocacy group that promotes healthy and diverse ocean ecosystems and advocates against practices that threaten oceanic and human life.

She wants to tell
the prairie how she stands

on one foot for minutes
when she’s missing

the trees winds
took last summer.

She wants to sing
to the prairie how she sleeps

through errant thunderstorms
during the nights

between meteorological
and astronomical

spring.

And the balance
between light and dark lives

in the gray gaps where shoulder
seasons are brewing.

She wants to comfort
the prairie with this.