There’s a poem sleeping in September light, but sleep doesn’t bring it.
Inner layering collects last week into alphabetized envelopes.
After little rain for 7 weeks, the cut grass has lost its emerald sheen.
Time, stubborn, pulls at Monarch wings.
The field, outstretched, hinges mauve with sage and heather without airplane turbulence.
The neighborhood bear wrestles garages, a hibernation prelude.
Blankets are added to keep dreams under the yawning windows.
Crickets are learning to leave their violins.