Botanist's garden—
calendula, lavender,
nodding sunflower.

The garden out back—
flowerheads dry on garlands,
changing in the air.

Most times we don't know,
the memory becomes us—
the story we tell.

Synching cicadas,
time their songs across the marsh,
summer, nearly done.

Love remembers me,
because of it, I begin,
begin and begin.

Little universe,
made of goldenrod, poems,
night-singing insects.

We'll push our way through,
unnoticed and unknowing
our strength is unmatched.

Today with my dog,
visiting the sunflowers,
faces to the clouds.

Failed watercolor,
folded, becomes like a star
or a lost flower.

Feeding on the light
of the bright orange cosmos—
the bee, in mid-air.

I forget myself
under the full sturgeon moon,
fireflies everywhere.

A bright round balloon
floats in the sky—I drive home,
the late summer moon.

Bed of sleeping bees,
sunflower, a yellow moon
quiet and blooming.

Circular wren song,
busier than other birds,
beak towards the sky.

Unfathomable
worries and fears come to life,
despite all of this.

Deep secrets and all,
on my interior wall—
hazy morning sun.

Parasol mushrooms,
my dog senses deer were here,
under evergreens.

Closed-in August days,
falling asleep to rainstorms,
waking to dark skies.

The sunflower bed—
like other ends of summer,
birds singing at dusk.

Young hawk at the church,
fresh feathers, staying too long,
not afraid of us.