Husks of milkweed blooms,
rough and gray like beached seashells
let go of soft seeds.

Above goldenrod,
sky that looks like a blue lake,
boats slowly drift in.

Turkeys rest in trees,
cicadas sing all day long,
bees, wild for thistle.

Cut to take it home—
rose from my mother’s garden,
perfect yellow thing.

Crickets sing all day,
my dog and I, on our walk,
yawn and look and smile.

Leaving for the fall,
millions of birds fly overnight,
summer-born’s first trip.

Under the night sky,
crickets call from everywhere,
birds, asleep at last.

Living in the earth,
bodies and arms filled with birds,
living in the sky.

Moon out this morning,
the asters just start to bloom,
early September.

Zinnias are renewed
under the September moon—
crickets in their leaves.

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.