Summer’s broods are feathered now;
the roses soon frozen. Ice etched,
they’ll stand immune to change.
They will remain so, held up by sheer will
until snow blankets them
into oblivion.

Calendars do not mark time’s end.
Our reality is limited by the senses. Core
and mantle, star and black hole —
they do not rely on our perception. Beware
false prophecies.  When autumn tinges earth
with gold

it is easy to perceive our limitations.
We might chop the tree and burn the wood
and leave the forest gaunt with our destruction
but when our bones have bleached in sun
for days unnumbered by the best imaginations,
new forms

with greater eptitude will rise up
from the ashes.  The rock endures,
the sky is unbroken.  New springs
will bring new hatchings.  The eggs will pip,
the chicks will break free. Summer’s broods
will feather.

Pray that we awaken from this edge of sleep,
from this darkness of unknowing.
May we be as stone in stormy weather.
Let time take care of Time. This is our day.
May we rise from it

One Last Look

Oh sweet mosquito song of summer,
thrum of wings and splash of fish,
The praying mantis on a green leaf
almost hides itself in piousness.

Nothing is colorless, Even the air
wears tiny prisms of delight and sweet perfume
of gardens, bursting pea pods and pine scented
thyme, flowers blooming everywhere,
too exuberant to contain.

A time when children increase a grade,
but shoes and clothes can’t keep up
with the growth spurt, Cut offs
at the mill pond,

Shirt drying on a shady shrub
and twilight
O blessed breeze
that dries the sweat and tears,
the comfort

of grandma’s squeaking porch swing;
three generations of flaking paint
and still, no update
has replaced it.

Leaves are writing poems
of the coming fall, dreaming colors
heretofore unseen,
as poets ply their pens
to season’s end.

Peace Walk

Is there any day as large as this one?
Shadows of gone towers
loom larger than their monument…

Maples will wear new leaves again,
but never with such passion
as before that fractured dawn,
not even in the bloom of spring.

The glorious geese have queued
in orderly vees, I wonder if they’re tribal,
Do they do battle with other flocks
for a lake to land on?

Is it only humans who want to claim
the world? Listen to the wild goose call
It needs no translation.

Now that the flocks are gone,
and the feeding is done,
We settle into the seasons.

The moon, unblinking, guards its realm,
With swords sheathed and pens in hands,
the poets trek a path to the edge of starlight
to write our peace.