A wreck at the end
of the wildflower-lined path,
a bike left behind.

Six in the morning,
what secrets will stay secrets—
taken on a walk.

Figuring things out,
we walk and plume thistle blooms
along the wild path.

Soft yellow faces,
the bee and the sunflower
cling to each other.

Second bloom this year,
first in June, now September—
life in agreement.

My mind is still dark,
night stretches into morning—
the room blooms with sun.

Making things all day,
sun and clouds low in the sky—
September keeps hope.

Skies over beehives,
warm friends keep forty thousand
tucked in goldenrod.

Blown down in the storm,
five months ago orioles
nested and sang here.

Fly towards the moon,
starlings this morning did this—
breaking from the earth.

Deer with new antlers,
sleeping at the river’s edge,
awakened by us.

Last days of August,
wind over the cattail marsh,
the clouds breaks open.

Fragile in the world—
holding the world together,
these soft, beautiful things.

In the cool forest,
moss like an aerial view
of green shadowlands.

The sunflowers sing,
faces flocked with bees all day —
the buzz mixes in.

Branches green with them—
heavy, brown-capped acorns, round,
ready for the ground.

In the hot twilight
crickets don’t sing like last year,
tentative, forlorn.

Towards the summer sky—
August comes and goes quickly,
we prepare goodbyes.

These local heavens—
filled with memory, belief,
and what still could be.

Just out of the ground,
spinning like a galaxy
of woodpecker wings.