blue flax beside the highway,
ten thousand bridal bouquets—
each moment of the journey
saying, “marry me”
*
said the mama heron,
no more crawling
when you were made to fly
*
surprised by the mama grizzly—
one hand on the car door,
the other focuses the camera
*
in a field of avalanche lilies
each one
the most exquisite
*
clapping for Old Faithful—
thrilling at predictable
astonishment
*
sleeping in a puppy pile
between my grown children—
oddly glad for cold nights
*
morning alarm—
raindrops on the tent
each one pressing snooze
*
june snowstorm—
the morning takes its bikini for a drive
and slips into a hot springs
*
searching every meadow for moose—
missing it like that kiss
from the boy I never kissed
*
a whole week
with no blue—
relying on the places
I’ve tattooed sky
on my inner walls
*
seventh day in Yellowstone—
just another glorious herd of bison
and their perfect golden calves
*
the sing-along of a thousand miles—
even Julie Andrews asks
are we there yet?
*
said the desert,
you can’t smell the sage
going sixty