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