On Sunday
the wind blew like hell
the empty farmhouse down the road

windows raw black holes with brown halos
a monument of loss

next morning
the willow tree is right to hold
her tiny green leaves close

like jewels
they drip down her arms
glowing, ignorant of their perfection

the robin’s egg fell
forming the most gorgeous fissure
yolk intact inside two blue halves

blood spot crimson
against gold
papery shell the color of sky

at twilight I cut the grass
but I will not mow the tiny scilla
purple bells bent to cradle precious seeds

my heart pounds
and the birds
are singing like a river