The moon, not super,
not blue, no lady in it,
just hung low, silent.

Crickets sing all day
in this drifting August time,
before and after.

I can’t let it go,
my want of something precious,
something beloved.

Light catches the tips
of long summer cattail leaves
like lines drawn in ink.

Under the blue moon,
on the warm swaying cattail,
the grasshopper sleeps.

Alone, I’m walking,
as the river current goes,
and things fall apart.

Calm late summer light,
the morning of a blue moon,
rose about to bloom.

Maybe this is me
with precise, beautiful wings,
in another life.

It’s easy to think
the sunflower is like me,
head up, still forlorn.

Message from the stars—
they say that I’m not alone,
that I’m not alone.

Beach morning glory,
growing in the dark thicket,
blooming at the curb.

Pollen on its leaves,
like paint spatters or stardust,
summer sunflower.

Wings a little torn,
a Gray Comma butterfly
rests in late day sun.

Fields and fields of them,
the ferocious Wild Carrot,
thin neck, adorned head.

Smaller than my palm,
the Pearl Crescent stumbles by
on the summer wind.

The red-shelled bolete,
shy in the warm August grass,
casts its own shadow.

The light passes through
and makes the old Polaroid
tell me a story.

The August feeling.
almost imperceptible,
changing and fading.

Bindweed at the edge
of the warm, bursting garden,
wet with all-day rain.

Our August shadows
are cast long in the hot grass,
my warm dog and me.