We’re swallowed by it —
the clouds making a bright sheen
on the wide river.

These trivial things
that distract me from what moves
mysteriously.

Totem in the woods,
Beech tree carved with initials,
hearts fused in the knots.

Body smooth as stone,
neck like a flying kite tail —
sandhill crane in fall.

Unfazed by cold nights,
marigolds in October
grow like there’s no end.

The curtain of night
closes on the old forest
you and I walk through.

At the evening marsh,
the sun and the lily pads
float in the grasses.

At the bridge’s edge
we’re thrown into the river
by long warm shadows.

Arms out and alive,
the old oak at the river,
fixed under the sky.

Peace at the river,
deer feed on the other side,
birdsong in all ears.

Milkweed mechanics —
the stalk, husk, seed, fluff, and wind,
like a bird perched, flown.

Where has that girl gone?
She was me all along,
and I have been daunted.

Low October sun
lights every changing thing,
including us two.

It reaches for me —
late sunlight on the river,
not too late for me.

Birds take their places
in trees along the river —
October sinks in.

The bee, still buzzing
in October, around the
white anemone.

I call myself back
from the depths, the dark places,
for a second chance.

Evening sun falls
behind the shimmering trees,
you say, “Let's turn back.”

A pattern emerged
early and told them both to say,
“Your story is mine.”

These soft gentle days,
no worry in the shadows —
deer and trees alike.