This last habitat—
we expected to flourish,
armature in place.

The wet cattail marsh,
sun catching every blade—
cool August morning.

August like April,
birds rejoice for paradise,
singing all day long.

August skies fall in,
pulling all the wildflowers—
faces always up.

The details of life,
easy to miss—overlook—
not know, they are life.

Nearly mid-August,
the cicadas have started,
and this sunflower.

Branch to branch to branch,
moving along as we walk—
Goldfinches sing here.

I say to myself,
I say to everyone:
see this, don't forget.

If I could step out
of myself and into this
wild, blooming milkweed.

Remember the words,
remember the poets well,
the attempt, at least.

Years of making things,
trying to make sense of days—
sometimes a blank mind.

Friday on the bridge,
we see the flowing, blooming,
fantastical world.

The velvety bank
of the full, bustling river,
lush with memory.

William Carlos Williams wrote
about a white field of wild carrot,
like this one, today.

The teasel comes in
for the Eastern Swallowtail,
soft-bodied, soft-eyed.

The August luster
of the sunflower head—
pouring out and in.

The feel of August—
morning glories on the rail,
the color of sky.

Your bright yellow head,
home with me now, sunflower—
we nod to the sun.

July dragonfly,
living a life with see-through wings
drawn with such detail.

Picking wild carrot,
by the side of unlined roads—
all seemed possible.