Fall is coming,
And so our garden falls asleeping.
As the loss of a passing pet,
A passing friend,
I feel it likewise grave
When delicata feels elegiac.
Such nurture it gave!
Such beauty in growth!
Each passing week new life matured.
Blossoms emerge.
What simple gifts waited for me,
As I foraged for the manna?
Now to soil this garden defers.

Cottonwood Democracy

Where classic clouds grow on bits of dust and gather rather high above,
The secret cloud grows on the cottonwood tree.
Quite a democratic cloud,
Unlike its lofty family.
The end of May sees the white cotton wisps descend to waiting lips.
Clouds can be distant seen by most,
A privileged sight by flight for some.
The cottonwood clouds are free to touch, smell, taste, see, and listen to.
No access wristband needed there.
Simon would approve.