Late August

Odd over ripe days of late August-
Heat drifts by in waves to be washed out
In the darkening dusk.
The sultry night cools minute by minute
As the earth tilts towards the autumnal equinox.

We sit on the porch eating peaches,
The last fruit of the orchard
Now swept of debris.
Only the wasps and bees remain
Still searching for that last drop
Of sweet succulent summer.


changing course

Sunrise Nov am

It is early November.
There is mist in the air
As the small dog and I make our way along the rocky path
To the pebbled shoreline.
The autumn woods are filled with shadow
And muted gold, pumpkin, russet-
A tonal landscape against the pewter skies.

I wonder when my eye became jaundiced to the scene
Unmoved by the artistic tapestry of color and hue
Displayed across the Ozark ridge.
When did the gray sky become unwelcome
Rather than the silvered backdrop
To the loveliness of the autumnal display? A bowl
Filled with wild wings and honking voices of geese
As they vee through the low clouds.

Can I restore my sight
To this beauty? Can I recover my wonder
And excitement at the changes Nature bestows?
Will I accept the gift of time the season offers?
Long mornings to bright afternoons spilling into dusk
And deep nightfall – hours to fill and pour out
Into my waiting hands.

I will scrape the tarnished scales from my eyes
And change course into the autumn wood,
Raising my face to the mists and fog, filling
My arms with the abundance of autumns graces-
Opening my heart to its beauty, allowing myself to rejoice
In the gift of its golden time.

For Stephen

All Souls Day

Octobers Lament

In the November wood,
small furred creatures scurry
through the drizzle dampened leaves
making their way toward winter
and December snows.

Silent as the low gray skies,
the old grizzled crow sits in the dead hickory
contemplating the seasons change
and the cost of flight
and winter hunger.

Colors are muted
as well as sound
in the damp November wood.
Stillness settles in the shadowed trees.
Requiem aeternam dona eis Domine.

Autumn Song

Nov Fog

Pale and threaded,
the needles nest in rough patches
releasing the scent, resinous
of pine forests
and her true home.

Tall trees stand
in her dreams, waking
and sleeping. I brush
the leaves from her hair.

Gathering fog,
I nest my heart in clouds,
its hollow sound echoing
with the song of autumn
and loss.

(This is a repost of a poem written last fall)