scrambling eggs —
the whisk beating in the bowl
always my father's

tissues and pillows —
nothing to report
from the sick room

red, gold, and orange —
we claim a front-row seat
for the coming change

Rosie wants to know
why we keep calling her cute —
so cute!

days and nights of clouds —
the moon tries one more time
to break through

coastal storm surge —
the last flowers of summer
knocked down for good

thinking ahead
to the light we'll be missing —
fall equinox

reaching for blankets
as this late September rain
floats down as mist

pellets of bones
at the base of the tree —
an owl's resting spot

tugging
at these loose threads of summer —
white-throated sparrow

one last push —
flowers working overtime
to give their seeds a chance

my friend from way back
sends me a picture of sky —
together in blue

at the center
of the quiet patch
I found a fox

the sound of rain
making its way down to earth —
something soft lets go

pollinators
in slanted afternoon sun —
every bloom sacred

cooler evening air —
let's stand for a moment
at each open window

as soon as we leave
the birds return to their bath —
a dance in each day

the bees and moths 
accept an invitation —
tall purple asters

now who was it
I was going to send
that poem to?

little goldfinch gang
descending on the garden —
no seed is safe!

tiny tomatoes
from seeds that were hidden
in the compost

she waited until

no one was watching

and then slipped away

 

spreading out slowly
into the still night air —
scent of a skunk

reaching back
into my childhood
for my mother's hand

gentle surrender —
every growing thing bends down
bowing to the heat

sometimes at night
I imagine my grandfather
running away again

last days of summer —
children at play in the fields
refusing to come in

we treat ourselves
to old albums, saying
"He still makes that face!"

at last the cornfields
grow tall enough to get lost in —
September sunshine

it seemed to us then
that the moon had stayed full
for an extra night