The sun still shines;
Even at a slant it sustains.
It’s true, the buds have burst,
bloomed their best. Now
beauty has faded but underground
there is the promise of return.

Ash and oak  and spreading chestnut,
the maples most exuberant:
They know the drill, know
the disappointment of leafy canopy
stripped bare. They do not quit
nor do they slink away to shadow.

Even the fragile ferns, bent
by the wind, endure to praise the tempest
for the spores it spreads, and the brook,
ever joyful with its song, gurgles
beneath the crusty ice
throughout the season of freeze.

Each October, it looks as if the lilacs
are gone forever; each spring
they bloom again. To everything
there is a season. Whether we believe
or not, they will return. Such is the love
of our Creator.

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.


To an Oak

Wind-shook, gnarled tree,
bastion of Earth’s slow breath
and Spring’s sap rising,
you are brave
and I, at best, am brief.
There are no such things
as small deaths. Dreams
die hard; wisdom
is a slow learning.
Having long since flown
the nest, I return at last
to embrace these roots.

We cannot turn the tide…

leafy limbs emboss
a blue sky – August
keeps April’s promises

some things
like poems and old dreams
return to us in sunsets

tides, oblivious
to our whims, take direction
only from the moon

almost adept at walking upright
and using tools, we’ve been known
to stumble or bruise a thumb

wind tossed
we wander, sometimes
fingertips touch


Sunrise by the Sea

Where rolling surf laces the sand with foam
and emerald seas sit calm beneath dawn’s sky,
dolphins roam the range from shore to depths
spied only by the blest; or by the wise
who rise and shine with the morning sun.

Beyond the sidewalks, beyond the boardwalk,
far beyond the antlike industry of man,
When Nature talks waves crash, not markets,
The bombing here is done by gulls and terns;
they need no war to make them free.

Stay the hawking vendors from this temple,
a garden paradise fit for the likes of Eve or Guinevere,
Apples here don’t bear the bite of asp,
Where sun and shore share sanctity
the signs are of the seasons, not neon.
Rapt in the peace of the new horizon,
lulled by soft sonatas written in those holy times
when man and elements blend in harmony,
meager mortals
touch eternity.