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.


In the Face of Bad News

They told her
and suddenly she knew
what it was like to get out of the elevator
on the wrong floor.

The doors
were different, the numbers
upside down or maybe her vision
was skewed.

She only knew
breathing was a chore.
Before, when she stood
at the alter of the unknowing

it was easier
but one can’t unring a phone.
A distant voice spoke in a language

There was no eye
to the storm, only feet with shoes that don’t fit
on a road that wore blisters
and sharp pointed stones.

After that
she searched for a map
for where she was going or where
she had been.

She told me
that direction
is the first thing you lose
in the face of bad news.

The Sparrow’s Song

God have mercy
on those who view the hills
with cold eyes, with those
who see the sunset
and do not tremble
with new awe.

Between the lines,
between the mighty oak
and fragile lily, all the words
spoken and unspoken
glorify Your name.

In the notes of a sparrow’s song
the sound of gratitude and praise,
Your mighty hand
has gentled this creation into being.
Your loving heart
sustains it through the storm.

A Time of Change

August has passed its prime;
the sun soaked air,
lethargic and parched,
has ceded
to September.

Sweet Alyssum purples a circle
around the Asters mother planted
when seeds were five cents a pack
and the air was clear.

Many a Monarch
has landed here, cherishing
the late season nectar
at this way station
on their fall migration.

We gather at the far edge
of summer, remembering
and sharing laughter and tears.
It is a  time of reunion.

We are as butterflies
following the bloom,
responding instinctively
to autumn
calling us home.