Only chickadees
make a sound at the lake's edge—
the pressure of peace.

Sun across the marsh,
my dog and I, in frosty air,
feel it looks like hope.

Sitting in the sky,
soft rising October moon,
pink against pink sky.

The gifts of the earth,
what can I give in return
but my attention.

I am the new bloom,
beautiful birch on the ground,
I embrace with love.

Green algae jewels
skimmed in through her lowered beak,
the only sound here.

Flying by moonlight,
the last crickets still singing,
geese leave in a V.

Frost coming this week,
the light has already changed—
finding the edges.

Everything is green
under the overstory—
even cricket song.

Fooled by October—
always going too far out,
for its false promise.

The October sky—
hold this up to understand,
to feel, to make sense of.

Happy to be home,
thankfulness beyond measure,
the smile in the eyes.

Loneliness at dusk,
an unfamiliar city—
the buildings turn pink.

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.