“And as I watched, one bird

prompted by accident or will to lead,

ceased resting; and, lifting in a casual billow,

the flock ascended as a lady’s scarf

transparent, of gray, might be twitched

by one corner drawn upward and then,

decided against, negligently tossed towards a chair.

Melting all thought, the southward cloud withdrew into the air.”

—John Updike

 

Fall

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.

 

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October Dream

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.

 

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Bluebirds in the Alder

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.

 

Oceans, Mountains, Prairie

Black and White Prairie

 

At first it was the ocean I loved

then the mountains then the ocean and the mountains again

but now I see it will always be the prairie.

If I could carve out a little hut camouflaged in a verdant bluff I would

spend my days turning circles in the long, gilded grass with the sun watching

the clouds narrate each breath I would

let the wind decide when it’s time to retreat before the prairie toads and pointed

frogs hop about under the brilliant reflection of the moon whispering the word

eternal

let the snakes unbothered, carve out their ssssssssses of gold and the

jackrabbits leap for joy over their communal unanimity I would

let the coyotes yip yip yip me into a bottomless slumber of cool air and simple

dreams

where bison rise to a bluff under the darkened veil of an afternoon storm and

mustang wildly toss their obdurate heads bucking and cantering

into this earthy outer-space more cosmic and unscathed than what people sail

or climb.