The Orchard in November

The apples rotted on the ground,
their season done. No one is starving here
but there is sorrow. After all, we are mortal.

This is not the time of year
to be walking in the orchard.  Shhh,
the trees are sleeping.

We climb our mountains quietly.
Two thousand years of tears is not enough
to round all the rough corners.

Our flesh is torn
from going on.  The climb is steep
and Time has bony fingers

It is not the sweet red apple
that we sorrow for, nor the shivering limb;
we mourn for blossoming.
Advertisements

To Be…

We take the risk of being overwhelmed
to touch one toe into the briny sea.
Illusions, spells, fantasies;
a million shattered blisses that understand
earth holds no resolution for the hungry soul
but treasures its shell in a deep and mossy grave.

One dies many times when drowning answerless,
no ground beneath the feet;
fragments of debris the only proof of existence,
but no dry stone could better signify
our tiny blip on the timeline
of to be.

Neither fog nor smoke —
the clouded mind nor the clever tongue —
can find the truth or hide it
when the wind is at the door
and the tide is rising.  The skyline,
ever changing,  fades like history rewritten.

Two Steps Past Autumn

 

Leaves fell faster this year,
Maple, oak, calendar…
I rake them, mound them,
leaf through them
looking for childhood.

They burn in beautiful bonfires,
Sparks rise heavenward
like so many fireflies.
I travel backwards
to when I still knew how to sing.

Marshmallows toast the season.
Guitars make love
to the air.
Lord, give me this day…
to keep forever.

The fire, suddenly gone shy
beneath a harvest moon,
slips slowly to embers.
I stir the ashes,
awakening old dreams.

Light Seasoning

In the Spring
when flowers bloomed,
I gave no thought to seasons,
It was Spring,
I had no reason.

Then Summer
wore blazing sun,
days of light and days of fun,
but Summer
spent its passion.

Bless Autumn
with its pied ruse,
tangled vines, and vibrant hues,
O! Autumn,
I would stay with you

But Winter
came and claimed my
hand, lined my face, stole the sun,
O! Winter
cold, what have you done?

We Are Weavers

The tapestry,
a dichotomy of day
and night, of seasons lush
and seasons ripe, followed
by fallow days,
for even love must rest.

Wove a million years ago,
primordial, yet undying,
with interlocking weft and weave
in colors that grow rich
with wear.

This tapestry,
bequeathed with trust
that we would guard it well
in sickness and in health,
wears its patches proudly.