In Pickerel, Wisconsin, the sunflowers are dying
under an overcast sky.
They want to forget –
you can see it in their dark faces,
feel it in their limp green necks.
They are sick of the sun’s ancient promise,
sick of living like beautiful cowards.
 
The cicadas switch off their electric fence,
a small aluminum boat drips away from the landing,
and the lake heaves.
On the opposite shore, hemlocks wave their dark spires
like the excited hands of children,
begging for answers.
It is Sunday morning and we are asleep.
 
My neighbor Bud McBain’s at church –
He’s 86 and lives alone up here.
In my dream he kneels beside an empty pew,
moving his hands where they have moved before,
and disappears into a brilliant field of topaz. 
I prayed for wind, he’ll say,
letting himself into our cabin, waking us up …