–after Ross Gay First, it’s the backyardswing and the gentlesway and me with my sappyYA novel about teenagecancer patients andyou never knewwho would liveand who

Having never spared a thought that it may hurt this muchwere I to strain my voice against a stricken & starless sky, I strain my

The perilous journey of monarchscomes every four generations. Driven by some response to the slantof the sun–some peril in the air– they strive against the

I am a little world made cunninglywhose every element   spiralsdownmirroring the worldoutside where glistening surfaces fadelike a tarnishedcrownThe planet prophesiedwhen I wasn’t listeningthroughsidewalk cracksthrough the

“They also serve who only stand and wait.” But here I sit, half blind, life two-thirds gone,musing and sipping coffee on the deckof Latte Balcony

For David Beckwith, 1950-2022 The week you died, the Russian tanks rolled into Ukrainethrough gauzy snow like this. Your brothers joked that Putinwaited to invade

Have you ever desireda carwash for the soulrushedright up to thoseretractable doors to driveright in let the gush & spraywash away mud-splatters& grease? You knew

(Ribes sanguineum) Back in 1825, David Douglaspacked your kin on a ship to London,where sales of their seeds alonerepaid the cost of his expedition. That

From the very top of Grey Butte,the peaks and canyons of Yosemiteflash around us as they do. But above, in an ocean of deep-blue sky,four-five-six