Between Seasons

On a day so light
the glint of a goldfinch
almost (but not quite) blends
with the sun,

flashes of spun gold
spark  as the wee bird darts
to and fro on his mission
of mercy

or industry
without ever stopping
to smell the roses, a creature

between seasons,
transient as the leaves
just beginning to turn,
giving up their green

for yellow
and gold, and red-orange.
Debutantes all with no thought
of tomorrow,

they enter the gala
singing  the songs of summer
as they drift
into fall.

Soliloquy on Summer’s Last Rose

Both fire and rain, so vast the rationed storm,
It’s September.  a time well known for squalls.
Tho skies are tempest tossed, His hand commands
weather that will sustain a single rose…
one scarlet bud upon an em’rald stem.
Such treasure is undeserved by mortal,
Such pleasure designed free from sin and now
the only vision to disturb …  mankind’s
foul blot on this picture of perfection.
Even so, the bloom casts its spell on all,
the silken petals lend their softer touch.
…..One time I might have plucked it for my bliss,
…..Today it is enough that it exists.

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 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.