Dawn slips in slow notes
over the misted mountains,

Pied leaves
dance to their own rhythms;
photosynthesis is done for this year.

The leaves compete with pumpkins
for that perfect shade of orange
while white tail deer wear their russet coats
with pride.

Fresh faced morning
makes a lazy start. In this seasoning
Spring’s song has long been sung.
Now every dew drop holds a rainbow
and a mirror.

Still Time

Still the hands of time
while maples, leafed out atop the hills,
make canopies that ripple gently
with the kiss of July’s breath,
Then the glory days of August bloom
partner in dance with the sprightly song
of summer sun.

Another short one,
Leaves turning, falling ever faster,
the calendar growing thinner now
as the mind leans closer to
Autumn. But stay, September can wait.
Set silver notes afloat in sun shine;
there is still time.

A State of Mind

While I watch
from the warm side of the window
winter deepens outside my door

It’s true
the clock’s hands turn
the calendar sheds its leaves

but there’s something inside me
that won’t let go
of autumn.

The harvest is in
the vines have gone from dust
to dust

Jars of preserves
are lined neatly on the shelf
and I know

though seasons
cycle ever on
autumn is a state of mind

Holding the Hand of Time

June is done and Autumn is on its way.
The maples, newly green, are thinking season’s change,
planning colors with more pizzazz than last year’s.

The pines are drinking dew, knowing that they have
and need their own version of the camel’s hump
to keep them green all year.

Even the Balsams, noted for their preening,
are bowing their heads to time.

Oaks stand tall, holding the homes of sparrows
and squirrels in their limbs. Acorns, for the sake of posterity,
will show their faces later.  Endurance is their destiny.

And we, mankind in all our slants,
keep calendars to bridle the passing of time.

Thinking to keep control
we watch the sky for signs of change
as if we really believe God’s sharing His secrets.

He is, you know. It’s been said
that Nature is a lot like poetry;  with visions for those
who keep the soul’s windows open.

The Orchard in November

The apples rotted on the ground,
their season done. No one is starving here
but there is sorrow. After all, we are mortal.

This is not the time of year
to be walking in the orchard.  Shhh,
the trees are sleeping.

We climb our mountains quietly.
Two thousand years of tears is not enough
to round all the rough corners.

Our flesh is torn
from going on.  The climb is steep
and Time has bony fingers

It is not the sweet red apple
that we sorrow for, nor the shivering limb;
we mourn for blossoming.