In the early morning, I hear the loud

In the early morning, I hear the loud
sound of the squirrel landing its tiny body
in the grass. A couple leaves are burgundy
in the late summer trees, the wandering clouds

populate the sky. There's a drip on the bud
of the iris behind the garage, I am as moody
as the Moon. I would like to imagine the steady
water oak being immortal, I stand as proud

as a tree on the soft earth. She is a dream
I had that I can't hold, she is a puzzle
that I can't settle, I am hearing the sound

of her soft breathing. The body that I am
is inadequate, I udder mysterious riddles
and know she is the beloved I will not find.