Here I am again,
photographing goldenrod—
mystery persists.

Cadence of crickets,
as I try to fall asleep
I picture their song.

Dove, blown by the storm,
I'm drowning in loneliness,
sky, filled with water.

Hard-headed Tansy,
blooming for millenia,
here for my August.

Lover of the grass—
turning to the summer sun—
my soft-hearted dog.

Late August cloudbank,
parked above the pulled-out trees,
stunned crows call, wander.

I cross this threshold
looking for revelation
in the smallest things.

Finally, I have
stopped looking for answers—
it's just each moment.

Before the rainstorm,
crickets sing in this garden—
deep into the night.

Invention inside—
birds nest over the back door,
the sun, up and down.

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.