three blankets deep
into late september
the furnace stays off
until the crickets
stop singing

camouflaged
to blend into
its surroundings
a rain barrel painted
with fallen leaves

http://www.rainbarrelguide.com/

the fog slow to lift
from the marsh
I hold onto
my blurred photo
of a whooping crane

gift of the bonsai
I believe the pine
knows better than I do
what shape
its life should take

she got to be
so small with the details
you couldn't even see
the stitches she made
with her needle

in the low-sodium,
low-cholesterol diet
there's not much to look forward to
the refrigerator as quiet
as a burned-out light bulb

alone 
for 30 minutes
in the examining room
I contemplate the stacks
of expired magazines

as though
they hitchhiked here
from another galaxy
the strange orbs
of pawpaws

fall pockets
of decomposing mushrooms
I often find them
sewn into places
I would never think of looking

as if my life
needed more music
the batons of goldenrod
       s w a y i n g
with the windchimes