Still Time

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.

Poet’s Eternity

All poems dwell in paradise
when able Muse makes use
of a mindless hand, mere prop
for a borrowed pen.

There’s no fallow ground for a seed
conceived as such and sown
when  once blind eyes are opened
in epiphany.

Hill or vale, the poet summons
alchemy and sets out
to drain wells with a thimble,
thus a poem is born

to dwell in paradise forever,
while the poet, caught up
in pursuit of perfection,
is consigned to hell.

Yet even in bleakest despair
the poet writes on. Night
is darkest before the dawn;
Hope springs eternal.

Without Doubt

The summer sky,
by night laced with stars,
by day a larger one. The sun

all spark and flare
and promises of tans
even with the sunscreen.

Last night blew the light
away. Today the wind reigns
over gray skies.

It is July, the sun
will return and when it sets
night will again be laced

with stars. The cycle is constant;
you can count on it,
Have no fear.