moonrise . . .
the volcano's crater
fills with light

autumn equinox
a pill to keep me
more in the middle

farm fresh spinach
the familiar sound
of sand

thistledown cloud
the reliable son claims
he's the black sheep

migrating plovers
      the stream empties
           short of the sea

wind turbines turning in my sleep  

chipped garden buddha—
another day the old cat
refuses to eat

yellow maple leaves
the old farmer's
one fingered wave

morning dew—
the path made
by the paper boy

dusk
where wild apples
have rolled to a stop