Full afternoon sky—
late summer chicory blue,
September moves on.

Providence morning,
dogs go for their daily walk
under the steeple.

Teasel, free to grow,
a tall, thorny family—
curled rough together.

Even your damp ears—
not much is better than this,
reading poetry.

A change in the light,
clouds fold, unfold above us,
goldenrod, a bed.

Feather in the grass
the color of the forest,
a setting red sun.

The moon is up there—
the thinnest morning sliver,
sun coming up fast.

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.