you spread grass for

                clover slow like parting

                a lover your fingers

                shorter than I thought

                hold flowering tops

                point at eagles, cleavers
              
              

                yellow-striped necks slip

                their shells off logs

                ripple duckweed, water lilies
              
              

                my boiled hands point you

                to spiderwebs thick with pollen

                blown down from cottonwood

                the webs move like dress hems

                when the lake breathes out
              
              

                the first thimbleberry

                of summer collapses

                on your palm and you

                speak to me soft as its

                stem and downed leaves
              
              
across the inlet
              

                can you hear hawks

                call from branches

                full of crows
              
              

                Arianne True is our Poet in Residence for March.

Previously:
                "Nautilus", and "studies in negative space".