I wonder
about the hour ahead
when the sky
will turn into glass
and fox barks will lift,
lift, lift, the night
but what can this do
for the wings of that moth
that fell at my feet
in the grass in the gold time
of this afternoon?

Synced With September

I stroke his eyelids, and as the robin shows off in the bath again, I reassure him this is still his stamping ground. We chatter as seeds sail by as if lost from another world. I tell him how they get caught with moths in the spider webs, now everywhere. And that even the leaf skeletons, stones with holes in them and squirrel bones I found in the flowerbed the other day, won’t fall through the cracks. And that it’s possible to trace a journey in the black spot and mould patterns of the rose bushes. We keep talking until the sky goes from red to yellow, and petals that will soon be relics of our summer turn into stained glass. He purrs his delight, and I tell him he’s gold as this autumn will be.


The sun is low
and it electrifies
snapshots of life woven
between branches holding
rosehips filling
an expanse I choose
to count on
with the monthly silver
dollar suspended
by threads
of floating ice.