Now they’ll go to seed,
we cut down spent sunflowers,
heads rest in the bed.

The blurry treeline,
under the clouded half moon,
I'm tired, worried.

She’s crunching acorns
every night at the river,
evening birds sing.

Up with the half moon,
moving clouds, stars, mystery,
I disappear here.

No one could make them
feel more perfect in my hand,
the weight of acorns.

Acorns like jewels,
smooth talismans in my hand,
crunch under our feet.

I’ve documented
the endless wonders we’ve seen,
and what have we learned?

The comfort of trees
on the banks of our river,
full of darting fish.

The deer, all angles,
body the color of bark —
appears, disappears.

The collected things
with me for the time being
that I’ve made or found.

I hung a clock like
Félix González-Torres,
second hand that weeps.

End of the day walk,
acorns falling on our heads,
we’re finding our way.

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.