Summer threnody—
 
drought-dead leaves drop one by one
 
on a dusty path.

 
 
 

Nothing stays the same—
 
pine cones, dog bones, river stones
 
crumble into dust.

 
 
 

Deserts I have walked
 
still somehow remember me—
 
stones and dust and thorns.

 
 
 

See this speck of dust?
 
That’s how long it’s been, my child,
 
since the mountain fell.

 

 
 
 

On the kitchen shelf
 
dust lays itself down each night
 
among the teacups.

 

 
 
 

This old stone lantern
 
where a wren once built its nest
 
now holds only dust.

 
 
 

on a wooden door
 
one red dragonfly, one blue—
 
summer turns to ash

 
 
 

A great cloud of dust,
 
settling on the thistle patch,
 
tints each blossom brown.

Rain

 
 
 

Even during rain
 
the front-porch jack-o’-lantern
 
wears a coat of dust.

Clouds

 
 
 

Dark clouds to the north—
 
perhaps an autumn shower
 
will settle the dust.