Rachael Z. Ikins
Ragweed lowers powdered hair to earth,
droops of drape, shelter. September dusklight
slants across pavement a paler gold,
almost white. Two bits of sable softness detach
from leaves´ camouflage, venture along the life-lines,
asphalt´s cracks. Pink paws wash whiskers
to gleaming. Voles, mice, litter-mates?
Each comfortable with other.
Crickets, grasshoppers, chant evensong. Warmth
reminiscent, August, but light never lies. September.
Plants understand, animals accept, even crickets sing
"Death´s Prelude in E Minor." on October´s porch.
I hold my breath, watch this grooming pair,
participle to a glamour where drainage ditch
is an uphill flowing stream in another world.
Where dragons can materialize among
constellations, and all celebrate moon.
My dogs notice nothing. I blink, mice disappear,
wooed back beneath ragweed skirts.
I squint into sky´s night spangle.
sky, ever ready for a dragon.
We walk home.