There are always paths,
in and out and through and through,
katydids calling.

We’re always going —
into fields of goldenrod,
into that dark night.

The meadow deer path
led us through soft wild carrot,
fog, clinging to it.

Contained in your joy,
goldenrod to be walked through —
sun on eyelashes.

Red-spotted purple
making due with a torn wing,
tasting goldenrod.

The end of the day,
we walk the silent deer path
out of the forest.

The long quiet hour,
we make our way to the woods
through the goldenrod.

Dark October clouds
during our afternoon walk—
wild carrot still blooms.

Dried goldenrod field,
golden even in winter—
deer find their way through.

Goldenrod has turned,
we walk in differently—
like we’ve swallowed stars.

The gifts of the earth,
what can I give in return
but my attention.

A change in the light,
clouds fold, unfold above us,
goldenrod, a bed.

Crickets sing all day,
my dog and I, on our walk,
yawn and look and smile.

In another life
I painted morning to night,
ate apples off trees.

Path through goldenrod—
evidence of deer sleeping
in the scented night.