These small needful things
under the September moon,
summer still singing.

Soft moss on the trees,
goldenrod haze shapes the light—
it’s open-hearted.

Waking from a dream,
where you were you but not you—
I'm me all along.

Imagined mountains,
greened with trees and lit by sun,
shadows come out blue.

September portrait—
ideas dance around me,
clouds inside my head.

The kite went up fast,
the lake looked small below it,
the dog, diving in.