we watch the leaves
and worry about the roots —
Afghani refugees

almost November —
the geese seem sure of themselves
until they're not

a change at the lake —
cormorants perched atop
newly downed branches

ready to dig up
every last tulip bulb —
October squirrels

a puddle of red —
the maple tree gives in
all at once

dogwood sapling
on the edge of giving up —
not even November

this spider and I
each waiting for the other
to make a move

where the peonies
used to bloom and hang their heads —
an open space

what he taught me
becomes each story's point —
my father's birthday

spinning a new web
every morning before dawn —
spiders catching light

Friday night —

pulling clean wrinkled clothes

out of the dryer

October moon —
a white-throated sparrow
serenades the marsh

a faint star waking
as the sun lets go at last —
listening with our eyes

(on request, for S.W.)

adding more layers
until I can feel the press —
blankets and friends

busy sanderlings 
stitching the new wave line —
low tide at Holgate

one bee still at it

in these last few zinnias —

all of us holding on

geese overhead
calling out their intentions —
fly, stay together

early morning sun
spilled out over the bean field —
my quiet harvest

kicking the tops
off of bright orange mushrooms —
hard day at work

spooky season —
the sound of my own blood
rushing in my ears

tall grass drawing
beads of mist from the low clouds —
we fight back our tears

all my letters
to my grandmother
have returned to me

as we stand talking
a leaf floats down to the earth —
the tree has a word

our front yard maple
orange around the edges —
woodsmoke in the air

rage and betrayal —
racing to get the trash out
before the truck shows

still no sign of light —
knowing that it's morning
from the blend of sounds

here we are
picking at the edges —
frayed days

catbirds swooping in
for a try at pokeberries —
autumn stock-up sale

every every morning
a few more petals 
on the ground

every light
twinned by the river —
the boathouse at night

we leave a space
in our conversation —
the flowers speak up

jalapeño slices —
fingers still tingling
hours later