Goldenrod Time

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

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