Summer’s Dwindling Days

Oh praise the blissful water,
the ripple of all life,

the icy splash and scream
of sea and pond,  the rock and slap
against the bottom of the boat,

And praise the sand
as It pours from the glass
too fast,  too fast.

Every granule
leaves a memory
of its passing,

Every sunlit morning
sings praises
to a dwindling store,

Every grain is precious.
Every moment begs one more.

Ghosts of Old Cathedrals

In the purple haze of nightfall
ghosts of old cathedrals,
souls of chapels long abandoned,
ease into the nave.

A congregation choired by wrens
nesting in the luxury of peace
laced with nature’s select scents
of trees and trillium in bloom.

Pine branches whisper prelude
and recessional in constant litany;
every day is holy here
where moonbeams illuminate eternity.


A Summer Place at Summer’s End

You took the hanging planter from its hook,
Summer’s done — the moving gets more tiresome
Every year. You pause to take one last look.

What cannot be packed is stored in its nook.
All is shining — there’s  not a single crumb;
The garden has been cleared of vine and stook.

Soon ice will claim the song of silver  brook.
You will be back when Spring again has sprung —
Each year you wonder if it’s worth the work.

The months ahead are like an unread book —
Sometimes winter is  the best vacation.
You place your fleece lined jacket on its hook

and time begins again at chapter one.