Lucky for these days —
walking the block at lunchtime,
wind blows in our ears.

Both napping, one wakes
to keep watch in the cold pond —
she’s still half asleep.

There’s no early grave,
I’ve made my own memory —
I see it sometimes.

Shadows crawl the ground
at the foot of the forest,
my dog craves life scents.

The trees are talking,
telling last-minute secrets —
not seeing ahead.

The wind makes handclaps
out of the round Poplar leaves,
we walk to beat rain.

The rolling cloudbank
feels like it’s at the center,
telling of a storm.

Perched in the Cosmos,
low sun reflects in his wings,
the October bee.

On the pond today,
a great blue heron fishes,
legs blurred underneath.

We leave ourselves back
and take ourselves forward, too —
leaf, bud, souls intact.

Roses stop climbing —
they confide in me about
their October grief.

The bee gets angry,
I’m here photographing him,
trying to get through.

Lichen wreathes the tree —
specked lime green in October,
up and down the trunk.

Waning crescent moon,
oblivious to sunrise,
jet trails, small worries.

Geese gather and preen
among the green lily pads
of Third Sister Lake.

The stars mix with clouds,
it’s late, my dog and I walk,
both feeling the dark.

The ginkgo has fruit,
turned yellow before the leaf,
here long after us.

Sunlight seeps into
the soft bed of the river —
we could lie in it.

October stillness —
crickets, cicadas quiet,
meadow turned to seed.

Tall cosmos from seeds
I gave my mother in spring,
now fall, for the bee.