late night flyover

the last two geese

still arguing

invisible moon —

I watch your lips until I

lose your words’ meaning

the squirrels and me —

running up and down

so busy forgetting

thin slice of moon —

I teach my fingers

to trace your scar

a day without sun

as the rain soaks its way down

into this haiku

first pitch —

a warbler gets the morning

off to a good start

every raindrop

its own origin story —

gathering autumn clouds

so glad for one picture

that shows the baby

crying

around every corner

flowers still hanging on

bent but not broken

amidst the birdsong

I listen

for your whistle

mid-October leaves —

suddenly all our walks

have a soundtrack

warm spell —

zinnias shake off the frost

to come back

visiting Grammy —

we wonder if this bouquet

might be the last

smaller waves

curling back in on themselves —

we walk the waterline

six long days apart —

the bullfrog’s croak sounding

more like a growl

October crickets
trying one more time to bounce
their songs off the moon

taking a moment

to relish the taste

of the wind

what good

is a night’s sleep

without you in it?

colder mornings now —

fog so thick we lose track

of where we are

these birds taking turns

as if by prearrangement —

front yard boxwood

we leave the quilt

where it was on the bed —

smoothed down forever

blood red leaves —

a little shock

to the system

bare branches —

we turn off the radio

so we can talk

again today —

spiders not worrying

about tomorrow

bulbs in paper bags —

coming back around to

growing up again

all day

noticing flowers I want

to ask you about

deer on the towpath

looking up from their dinner —

beautiful brown eyes!

forgetting

a few clouds to make room

for this one

clouds clearing out —

we bring the telescope

up from the basement

new calendar page —

leaves whispering

their impatience