the meadow at dawn
gives birth to ghosts:
slow dancers of fog
beneath a crescent moon
that’s just been deserted
by its entourage of stars
the goldenrod’s dark gold
mellows to yellow
a whole 30-acre bowl of it
between wooded ridges
where the sun comes
as a parishioner
among the monarchs
and the green darners
and later the lopper
with its steel grin
as i clearcut black locusts
infiltrating the goldenrod
enjoying their shade
even as i destroy it
there’s a cool breeze
from the heart of the sky
now that night and day
are nearly equal
happiness appears in the form
of small clouds
suspended just
out of reach
