In July the dandelions glowed so hard
they threatened to burn anything within reach.
Now they’re almost invisible, the lawn
a field of wishes tossed in wind.
I’ve let everything go. The grass bends
toward the ground, the birdbath
that belonged to the owner before me
rests in two pieces. All day I watch sparrows
imprint flight on sky and ignore the buzz of motors.
At midnight I’ll walk barefoot into darkness
and feel the flower ghosts rising up against my skin
like the silvery dust of moonlight.
Lori Lamothe’s third poetry book is Kirlian Effect (FutureCycle, 2017). Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Alaska Quarterly Review, Blackbird, Goblin Fruit, Hayden’s Ferry, The Journal, Still: the Journal, Verse Daily and elsewhere. She is a writing instructor and an assistant baker.
Artwork: Bella Kotak