Thudding of heavy rain
against the tin roof
deep as thunder,
as the chill arrives carried
on the back of the north wind
and the wings of geese
Black winged clouds
dark as ravens eyes,
chase the day away west
and down the ridge
into dark hollows and deep ferned rests
of wildings and heavy furred souls.
Scent of woodsmoke
curls up from unseen hearths
where bright fires catch the last of the sun,
warming benches and tidy rooms
hidden from all but wide eyed owls
roosting til moonrise.
I watch the clouds spill over the ridge
and into my kitchen
deepening the dark of autumn,
my dusk and evening prayers.
This is what silence sounds like
A silence of six minutes and twenty seconds
A silence that pours across a million faces
A silence that washes a million faces with tears
A silence that cascades across the hard-hearted land
A silence that spills from wounds and hearts
A silence that washes away the last of the argument
A silence that pours forth like justice
A silence that sounds like courage
A silence that sounds like
The lesson was on the rapture
and something I have been considering for a while.
It might be the only way to get out of this mess
Just leaving it all behind, rising in the air.
He preached on Paul and the Thessalonians-
A saint I have had words with all my life.
His zeal, a little zealous but he could spin a tale
of end times and deadlines and rising in the air.
The air was warm and thick, too warm
for an early April evening,
and one could be hearing trumpets, if you listened real good
and the Dixie Melody Boys started singing
and they all began to rise
and those flowered dresses and plaid shirts
all got left behind
rising in the air.
I find myself
strangely in a home
I never dreamed nor wanted.
Its a feebled reach from the water
to the seas I dreamed.
A small beautiful vessel
where I found you perched,
its white bow striped blue,
the color of your eyes.
I saw the horizon and knew how it would feel
not to remain as we were
The possibility of here and stay
and the choice was made
with the tenderness
of how the key was held and the lock
no longer needed.
Because I had dreamed how it would be
to drift in that moonlit ocean,
Then you were there at my shoulder,
tiller in hand,
steering us toward home.
and the coolness in the air is more figment than
mixed with heat rising from parched pavement
and aching ground.
It is quiet-
only an occasional lilt from passing birds
and laconic buzzing
from red wasps
busy at the old board bench.
I lean against the hickory,
it bark worn gray from seasons changing,
readying yellow to overtake the dried green
of its saw toothed leaves
in preparation of shedding it all
for a long winters dreaming.
I leave ex votos, tamata, milagros
wedged in the folds of the hickory’s skin,
bits of tin in the shape of my grief
and lost years.
An altar good enough for most deities
and the angels that linger
in autumn woods
on the first day
of my fall.
the scent of night rain lingers on the morning air
mingling with the first fallen leaves
and white blooming autumn clematis clambering
over ledges of stone and fences in decline
resettling the summers meadow into colors
of buff and tan, then flames of sumac spark
stringent sun fades and softened the harsh tones
of late summer drought into early autumn dusk
when the grand harvest moon, oh so far away
graces the sky with her golden beauty
and the crickets sharpen their bows
first song of fall
The west wind furrows the clouds,
mirroring the newly shorn hayfields
terraced in the colors of late summer,
golden and green.
Driving along the ridge, I enter
a Thomas Hart Benton painting
of undulating landscape
and sky. Fluidity of wind
cloud and leaf mural-ed
across the ridge.
May pops bloom wrapped
in vines of autumn clematis
their exotic flowers mingle
along the rocky path. Doe
and her fawn, still in dappled spots,
graze the ditchbanks
along side wild turkeys
with their celtic blue faces.
A day, late in August,
when the earth turns toward
autumn. A day as ordinary
as any other in its vast
extraordinary way, just
an ordinary day.