Melting Clocks

Crickets at twilight, frog calls from the pond…
My ears are so used to the sounds of summer
the silence is thundering,
It falls like a hard rain on my parade.

Though maples wear flame,
there’s frost on the ground,
Time creates its own conflagration,
Dali’s clocks no longer seem so surreal.

Summer has gone, a leaf flickers and falls;
its whisper already  a memory
for those days that are wrapped
in  the silence of snow.

In the end, the clock always wins out.
No matter how harsh the winter,
eventually the ice will melt
and time will continue.


Finding our north, we fly
over the tops of mountains,
white-petalled stonecrop, stars
beneath our wings.

Wild roar of the waterfalls
echoes in our ears;
we are bathed in rainbows
and quenched by the rising mist.

Center of the solar system
we soar atop our kingdom;
time unfolds in the wingspan
of ancient memory.

Gliding over a thousand years
of storm-washed stone,
we hover at the edge of day,
instinctively knowing
we are headed for home.


The maple at the end of the lane
has begun to reflect a changing.  Subtle now,
but noticeable, there is a shading toward
a paler green, then a remembering of red
as brilliant as any flame, boisterous but muted
by the tinge of a more mellow maroon.

Calendar pages move at snail’s pace compared
to the turning leaves. Liver spotted yellow wanes
to philomot on the palette of fall. Sepia, demanding
to be seen, adds a vintage tone that mingles well
with the red oak’s russet attire.

Pine and birch and the stately elm, caught
in gossip, rustle as they bend their heads closer
to whisper of whose colors are bolder and who
wears the finest gold.  The stories are old
but not shopworn,

no more so than the nip of wind cavorting
in a madcap dance in step with the swirling leaves .
A matter of days and even the flashiest red
crackles brown in contrast to flamboyant orange
as multitudes of pumpkins delight furrow and field.
Autumn is underway.