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