puddles full

of the day’s last light —

my father calls me

oh, mourning dove

stay for just a moment more

sing your low song

still hidden

by the near-to-finished rain — 

a cardinal, singing

unwinding ivy

from around the azalea — 

remember to breathe

hurling the last word

I catch a glimpse of myself

in the mirror

there are few things

more beautiful

than a running fox

looking for you

I find instead a summer moon

as you might see it