May

Alley-ooped with snowmelt and spring,
you toss wet kindled wood aside.
Sweet twigs steam in the cool north
noon, as layered as the still, ice-thatched
ground. Now I see you, now I don't.
Moving through the trees, you heap
debris wild for dry summer
fires. Master of the sudden sprint-trick

and turn, sleek mime of stick-thrown-feints --
they're off! Both dogs suckered again.
Joy-gesturing-juggler, how I love
your arm's suspension as the dogs
thrash through thistle and cow parsnip
in pursuit of prey only they can sense.
Doug fir posts brace the deck's wide
recessed soffits. The sun hoists you.

Christianne Balk