Deer to the river,
tentative every time —
one after the next.

We go out looking
for how we’ll live our long lives,
fooled by suns and moons.

We set out to walk
in gentle September air —
sunflowers confide.

The significance
of saying where love comes from,
under sky, sun, stars.

Looking for haikus,
wakened from their sleeping spot,
five ducks start their day.

The comforting things
that mimic meaning and grace,
that show proof of life.

Clouds in the river,
all of our words disappear
and go to nothing.

Against long shadows
cast on the path we’re walking,
the young deer crosses.

Sunday sun comes in,
he fills his nose with the breeze,
my dog is content.

Under sunflowers,
our reconciliation
happens silently.

Swans float in the sky
over the September field,
the grass labyrinth.

Red-spotted purple
making due with a torn wing,
tasting goldenrod.

Skittish, it runs past
to be with her family,
deer in September.

Mixed with the shadows
on the path in September,
there’s us and the deer.

Orion fades out
as early daybreak seeps in,
we move under it.

The look that he gives
on walks, in forests, green grass
that says contentment.

Fine silver hairgrass
on our path to the river,
memory follows.

Golden feather grass
takes its turn in between
times of warmth and change.

Today I saw a
luna moth and cormorants,
wings shaking, outstretched.

Lost on the water,
in dreams, beach that isn’t beach,
boats that aren’t boats.