Autumn’s Eastern Shore

A sepia daguerreotype;
the flat fields, the stubble left over
from October’s second cutting,
the shocks of corn
like rows of teepees ,

Some see a morning monotone
but my eye
sees a thousand shades and hues,
a palette unmatched
by any mortal hand,

O beautiful bronze of autumn
when you are gone
the year is all but done;
in spring the clover
will bloom again.

The crocus and the daffodil
will decorate new green
but my soul still finds its solace
on the Eastern Shore
in autumn.

First Crush

His big boy haircut
and tailored slacks
set well
atop the casually understated
Buster Brown lace ups,

His velocipede
was sleek, the first
one on the block
in metalflake,
and the fastest, too.

It was not the shoes
and the shiny cycle
with tassels, that dazzled
and impressed; it was how he hid
his tears when he crashed.

Echoes of a Hush

The woods are awash in moonlight;
the only sound a single pine needle
tumbling from limb to limb
in search of ground.

It leaves a murmuring trail
or is that the moon
whispering sweet nuthins?

My back against an oak,
a carpet of leaves
beneath my feet;
stars shine through a gauzy wrap.

Fog mingles with the sound of sparkle
as if it knows such harmony
is another miracle.

Somewhere
back there
in a world beyond the trees

a light shines from the kitchen window,
the refrigerator hums,
the heart beat of a clock
adds cadence to the night.

Swaddled in the familiar, all is one
with the rhythm of the universe.
A collective sigh echoes
‘Peace’.

October Oak

 

winter-oak-stock-image-616435.jpg

Your bright facade, stolen
by the wind, lies
in saturated brown, compost
for the acorn in its midst.

Bare limbed and shivering
you stand exposed, stripped
down to the skin. Eyes averted,
the fickle crowd passes by you.

Noble tree, the bold leaves
that hid your secrets were just
a temporary thing but memories
make you mighty.