For all the darkness,
to rescue, to be rescued —
it’s enough to try.

The scent of wet earth
drifts into his sniffing nose,
us two, up early.

Lying in the grass,
tonight he’ll dream of running
on that forest path.

Maybe a rosehip,
petals fade and fall away —
the moon and Venus.

Still life in dark times,
pollen collects on shoulders
of the sunflowers.

Just us this morning,
Venus, the moon, Jupiter,
unnamed and untied.

Dawn sky, a figure —
clouds like a pair of pink lungs,
the moon a freckle.

Asleep in the woods,
she wakes to find us looking
at her silent face.

Friends who wish me peace,
it’s a handhold in the dark
of a dark morning.

The peace in caring,
under fog, sun, sunflowers —
the sigh and the breath.

Looking up, amazed,
tired under the morning moon,
the grief before grief.

September wind sails the seeds
from the soft sow thistle heads —
it’s how things begin.

Thistle goes to seed,
her pale green wings like two sails,
she and I are small.

My heart is canted,
singing for a day like this,
smiling in the grass.

Patient grasshopper,
I water the marigolds,
two weeks before fall.

The fritillary
takes a rest on the snakeroot,
wings of crescent moons.

Early on Sunday
out under the setting moon,
we’re changed and we’re changed.

Taking our turn here —
trying not to lose our touch
under tender skies.

For the forest walks,
goldenrod, sunflower fields —
all is forgiven.

The late summer fish
gather as we approach them
at the warm, deep pond.