A screen door bangs with the wind
chimes slipping through the branches
of our planted trees
gather each brilliant layer of snow
crystal skin
expected through tomorrow afternoon.
And I know you are listening to their laughter;
and I know you watched us when we ran to the door
to hear the owls
who have returned
after a year of silence.
Slowly, slowly wisdom gathers: golden dust in the afternoon
sometimes between the sun and me, sometimes so near that I can see
yet never settling late or soon… (Mark Van Doren)
The sluggish flies of fall will soon surrender; not yet the days too cold, we swim in splendor.
I am yours now; the grasses golden at my knees.
I am yours too; the brilliant fire of sundry leaves.
The wind is here, but not too much; the chill is too, but just a touch.
Bring me those clouds, festooned in sky; bring me their shadows, over mountains high.
Show me the smile on the face of a child; show me her face, all pink and wild.
Help me to find the longest way home; all time is too quick, this season on loan.
The sluggish flies of fall will soon surrender;
not yet the days so cold, we swim in splendor.
I am yours now; the grasses golden at my knees.
I am yours too; the brilliant fire of sundry leaves.
The wind is there, yes, but not too much;
the chill is nearby too, but just a touch.
Bring me all of your clouds, festooned in sky;
especially their shadows over mountains high.
Show me the smile on the face of a child;
the blanket pulled back, her face pink and wild.
Help me get lost for the longest way home;
our time is too quick, this season on loan.
“Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns” (George Eliot).
I’d forgotten they were there
a world of them flitting through air
with jade and sapphire wings at their side
unshaken when two worlds collide.
Unnoticed when the tangled roots are spry,
their nests don’t seem quite so high
for a coyote or even a fox to spare
yet still I’ve found, they’re always there.
And when those twisted vines do drop their spring,
when there’s little green on which to cling
their brilliant feathers spread and swing
and bluebirds in the alder sing.
Beautiful or strong
or filled with shadows long;
fragrant or wild,
young like a child;
aged or wise
all truth and no lies.
She just is.
The prairie.
Sometimes
when life runs through you
with the pace of a heavy wind,
the goldenrod and cattails ignite for just long enough
and a horse stands in front of you unmoving beneath the cottonwood tree,
a young steer at her feet
kicking at her fetlocks
and staring into the dying sun,
reminding you to stop and see.
