Emily said
it must mean something–
hordes of ladybugs, one
down my shirt.
October’s buzz of colored scales.
The two-point-five miles
around this artificial lake
must pick up the
flagging heart–
geese in their cove,
coots upended.
People would say
the weather’s picture-
perfect, the walkway too,
scooped of goose poop.
But oh, the tangle of marsh…
Tomorrow I go there,
sink into aster’s blue.
It takes only one hillside
turning its muscled
side to gold
to make me believe, believe.