Just in time for the holidays:
Dawn slips in slow notes
over the misted mountains,
dance to their own rhythms;
photosynthesis is done for this year.
The leaves compete with pumpkins
for that perfect shade of orange
while white tail deer wear their russet coats
Fresh faced morning
makes a lazy start. In this seasoning
Spring’s song has long been sung.
Now every dew drop holds a rainbow
and a mirror.
Still the hands of time
while maples, leafed out atop the hills,
make canopies that ripple gently
with the kiss of July’s breath,
Then the glory days of August bloom
partner in dance with the sprightly song
of summer sun.
Another short one,
Leaves turning, falling ever faster,
the calendar growing thinner now
as the mind leans closer to
Autumn. But stay, September can wait.
Set silver notes afloat in sun shine;
there is still time.
While I watch
from the warm side of the window
winter deepens outside my door
the clock’s hands turn
the calendar sheds its leaves
but there’s something inside me
that won’t let go
The harvest is in
the vines have gone from dust
Jars of preserves
are lined neatly on the shelf
and I know
cycle ever on
autumn is a state of mind
June is done and Autumn is on its way.
The maples, newly green, are thinking season’s change,
planning colors with more pizzazz than last year’s.
The pines are drinking dew, knowing that they have
and need their own version of the camel’s hump
to keep them green all year.
Even the Balsams, noted for their preening,
are bowing their heads to time.
Oaks stand tall, holding the homes of sparrows
and squirrels in their limbs. Acorns, for the sake of posterity,
will show their faces later. Endurance is their destiny.
And we, mankind in all our slants,
keep calendars to bridle the passing of time.
Thinking to keep control
we watch the sky for signs of change
as if we really believe God’s sharing His secrets.
He is, you know. It’s been said
that Nature is a lot like poetry; with visions for those
who keep the soul’s windows open.
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.
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.
cracks healed over
but not quite
were it not for the foundation
it would have been a ruin
not as noble as the Acropolis
more like the old church
in the wood
holy even in disrepair
earthquake and typhoon
taproots grow deep
and thus the bloom
season and season
In the flow of lonely rivers
as they whisper to the sea,
the sighs of seasons past
keep you ever close to me
and though the way be weary
when roads run to twists and bends,
in the pale glow of moonlight
we will meet when journey ends.
If time moves much too slowly,
then dreams move much too fast
and in the turning of the hands,
there we shall meet at last.
Full moon eclipse –
Senses sabotaged by light
now blinded and insensate,
Primal rhythms pulse
within the blood,
such is the night.
Having passed through
dark claims dominion
but bear in mind
even in rotation
earth is borne by revolution,
the orbit is the same.