for Thornton Wilder

Who feels the prairie,
stops for the song sparrow’s song?
The saints and poets.

The lake unfreezes —
I could sink in these cattails,
sun warms my shoulders.

Light catches the tips
of long summer cattail leaves
like lines drawn in ink.

Under the blue moon,
on the warm swaying cattail,
the grasshopper sleeps.

It’s a lot like love,
the grasses and morning sun,
the urge to sink in.

The wet cattail marsh,
sun catching every blade—
cool August morning.

Cattails are yellow,
Green Heron fish at their base,
the long day’s slow walk.

I’ll take these small things:
a pair of swans taking light,
us, taking it, too.

We could both dive in
and become silver with sun,
reflecting the trees.

Yesterday, three swans,
today, five in the cold marsh—
float, preen, feed, stretch, glow.

Fall woods are quiet,
geese congregate on the lake,
chickadees forage.

The evening light
falls over the cattail marsh,
one purple loosestrife.

Worry on the wind—
animals move in the morning,
birds feed their babies.

Cattails like flagpoles—
red-wings moving up and down
in ceremony.