Inside with poems,
Orion goes, the sun comes—
this is what I’m for.

Dark October clouds
during our afternoon walk—
wild carrot still blooms.

Is there still mercy?
The boy and his small blue bird,
a flightless flight.

How to save this bird?
Every dark cloud after us,
danger everywhere.

This small quiet life,
I am not a gift for you—
a thing of beauty.

Limbs, always outstretched,
here, rooted by the river,
thinking only sky.

for Louise Glück

Surprised by the death
of a favorite poet—
life seeing poems.

Let go, let go of
the dark night, the lost embrace —
let go, let go of.

The tender life of
a forest mushroom, or an
October flower.

The kingfisher flies—
making the river his life,
not needing belief.

Big October skies
breaking apart every day,
and rearranging.

In this still forest,
we listen to the river,
my dog smiles and walks.

The dull day-to-day,
casual with my heartache —
its shifting edges.

October rosehips,
over our path in the woods,
a nest here last spring.

My house is open,
my mind freer each day,
welcoming to all.

All that’s remembered,
these days without each other,
things only you knew.

In good memory,
your voice, your face, your intent—
I’ll keep what I can.

This shield has been marked,
and this shield is made of marks—
both joy and sorrow.

Soft, endless asters,
the bees are mad for them now—
and I’m mad for both.

It feels like magic,
the sun, the air in our lungs—
October asters.