Every scrap of remaining beauty
every last
autumn-tinted leaf hanging from a twig
or lying
still vibrant on the forest floor
Every morning clothed in mist
every drizzly
day of rain pattering on spent gardens
or frozen fields
frosted white at sunrise
Every cardinal's clipped chip note
every whitethroat's
sweet whistle in the hedgerow
or the junco's
bell choir in the winter meadow
Every moment holy
On This Cloudy Damp November Morning
chickadees chortle
in the gnarled old apple tree
whitethroats whistle
in the mist
and drab goldfinches gather
to glean from spent coneflowers
and the Susans.
Breezes brush through
sassafras’s last ruby-red leaves
and pawpaw’s clinging gold
stirring the hazelnut’s burnished copper
and witch hazels’ butter-yellow blooms.
Surrounded by autumn’s gifts
no one is richer
than me.
Savoring every scrap of subtle beauty before winter’s long rest.
I Want To Be That Child Again
who skipped down the sidewalk past porches
decorated with jack o' lanterns, black cats and witches' hats
who stuffed her pockets
with as many acorns and hickory nuts as she could carry
who searched for red and yellow and orange leaves
to bring home and press in the family encyclopedia
who floated boats made of walnut halves with toothpick sails
in the nearby pond
who gathered grass and dirt and pine needles
to craft a nourishing soup for her imaginary friends
who standing arms outstretched in the swirling leaves
knew autumn would last forever.
I am reprising this poem from last year in praise of the colors and coming of fall.
The kinglets have come
ruby-throats are gone
and today I heard the sapsucker's
whine.
Gold plated pawpaws
crimson painted sassafras
frost asters blanket the fields
in lace.
Red-tails circle above,
white-throats rustle through the garden,
and days like black walnut leaves,
float one-by-one
away.
Beauty's blaze
faded
does she rue
her bare branches
where cardinals
perch
to devour
bitter berries?
Ripening over
the course
of a lifetime
we
offer our
fruit
to the world.
that doesn't stop coming
Like the parched autumn
landscape
day after day of drought
Or skinny deer
in a lean mast year
wandering in search of acorns
Or tree swallows' fruitless
flights
to gather insects
in a drizzling cold
April
Like wilted September spicebushes
who wait for rain
perhaps
someday
showers will fall
and we
will be revived
once again
