scent of lemon
the glint of a sunbeam
on polished pews

home from the lawyer
my old soft shimmy
and a bowl of huckleberries

first light
filling the orchard —
squeak of the pump

what my words can’t explain —
the autumn sun
on your back

quiet afternoon —
leaves on her desk
arranged by colour

Creaking gate —
the crows evenly spaced
between the headstones

summer night . . .
    slowly he disappears
        into cicada song

the angle
of the fruit picker’s ladder
autumn light

continuing heat
how does the maple know
that it’s autumn?

holding her close—
the pulse
of cricket song