The last butterfly
 
to forage in my garden
 
left its breath behind.

 
 
 

Moonlight in my hand
 
weighs less than a fly’s left wing
 
or a spider’s breath.

 
 
 

To tell their stories,
 
my grandmothers use my breath—
 
early morning rain.

Breath

 
 
 

Geese in the flyway,
 
stir the garden with your breath!
 
Let the new corn come!

Languid

 
 
 

Languid afternoon—
 
not the slightest breath of wind
 
stirs the Salton Sea.

Death

 
 
 

first death of the year—
 
the feral cat’s lukewarm breath
 
leaks from her nostrils

Almost

 
 
 

almost New Year’s Eve—
 
in the homeless encampment
 
an old man’s last breath

Blossom

 
 
 

A pear blossom falls
 
on the sleeping dog’s muzzle,
 
sweetening his breath.

Breath

 
 
 

The harvest moon,
 
if taken in my hand,
 
would weigh one breath.

Breath

 
 
 

in the same small room
 
where her lover lies dying—
 
breath of the raven