stay a while. Linger
with me until the last
bloom on the basswood tree
withers, and the bees move on
to bergamot. I’ll see you
in the jars of cherry jam,
the memories of first potatoes
and toes in cold lake waters.
And later, in December, when it’s hard
to remember what is now or real,
when I look to the night sky above
the frosted field to seek
Orion’s steady guidance, I will hold
the afterimage of sparks in the night
above each creek and stream:
arteries of fireflies, glittering rivers of light.