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.