by Daniel Rortvedt

At the hardware store again
                         I contemplate the same rose bush. Each spring

we plant the garden. Come autumn,
                         pumpkin roots overrun the lawn.

We stack cordwood in the back lot.
                         No one notices

dandelions until they become blatant
                         fireflies lighting the corners of the yard at sundown.

              The river is deepest at its center.

I stoop to build a fire.
The next sound is trout striking water.