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

September clover
among the tiny rabbits
that goldenrod hides.

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

Clouds float in the lake
next to lily pads like fish—
and what are we like?

Clouds low in the sky,
September has a feeling—
bees, wild for pollen.

Level with the ground,
starflower rising above
the great piece of turf.

We steal a few seeds
the day before her birthday—
my mother and me.

Orange sunflower—
a round, rough-petaled planet,
orbited by bees.

September begins—
every flower in bloom,
feeling the goodbye.

There's a deer in there,
ears lit by the morning sun,
in the green thicket.

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.