I change my route home
so it crosses the fox's —
knowing where to look

our fifth kind of aster —
tiny calico blossoms
crowd-source their sunshine

water in places
that have never seen water —
no way out, no plans

humid morning air —
geese under the bridge startle
as I run over

retirement savings —
finally getting smaller
after all those years

I've lost the cricket
that snuck in with the paper —
I wish it would sing

cool mornings at last —
every fallen branch looking
like a walking stick

skunk scented air —
the farm stand takes down its signs
one crop at a time

on the edge of drought —
the doe tucks her fawns in
with stories of rain

waning full moon
as we head towards autumn —
let me watch you sleep

pollinators
making a cheerleader
out of me

scuffing through leaves —
I kick myself all the way back
to childhood

nearing confluence,
announcing their intention —
geese on the move

I counted six bees
on the goldenrod today —
or maybe three, twice

resisting autumn —
I leave my socks
in their drawer

imagining the job:
holding doors open
as our children choose

the smaller the sweeter
purple fingers telling tales —
wild blueberries

kitchen cactus —
to truly show it love
we leave it alone

freshly squeezed lemon —
I find the nicks in my skin
by the stinging

we stayed still so long
the goldfinches forgot us
coming close after all

bats all up under
the patio umbrella 
'bout to make their move

turning over stones
nestled in the creek bed —
brief, tiny whirlpools

egrets and great blues
each making claims on their own
section of shoreline

young praying mantis —
we check each other out
as the world slows down

day by day
more sunlight captured
by the goldenrod

late summer sunshine —
lavender pods just out here
asking to be crushed

I trace your route
and trust it will bring you
back home to me

Birth Story

he asks one more time

about the pain; I tell him

that wasn't the point

early fall due date —
I spend the summer swimming,
practicing breathing

summer's end —
it seems that no one has told
our zinnias