In winter without you I send
a Florida postcard to myself
to somehow remind me of the week
after mid-July and towards the end
when scummy Dog Days were on the shelf
and we had a week of our own to spend.
Snakes snapped their venom
and leftover sparklers were lit
and Roman dogs sniffed the milkweed
from which fertile perfume had come.
Small blackcaps came bit by bit
and we came too, from our need.
The sumac had red heads on display
and the good blood moved into every lamb,
tomatoes and snap beans under Sirius,
field corn and field mice came to stay.
Mornings I washed our plates of egg and jam.
Our last light a whippoorwill spoke to us.