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Riotous color
Makes me sing,
Long, slow
Melodies with
Lilting twirls.
Gold leaves
Laced with frost
Fall,
Swaying through
Clear, blue
Sky like
Promises.

Sometimes I wish
I was one of those
People who is good
On the phone,
Vivacious and expressive
Even in thin air.
Instead I write words,
Images in my head
Transposed into
Strings of letters
I send into space
With the hope
That they touch
Souls and caress
Faces I love.

The fullness of
The moon
Lights the early
autumn,
Light of day
Matching dark of night,
The onset of winter
Fringing the
Coolness of early morning.
Cold weather habits
Seem foreign,
Covered hands and heads,
The openness of the
Wood.
This season of transition
Also measures a new beginning,
That step forward into
Thin air
Taken hand-in-hand.
Life passes
quickly,
Like clouds
Rushing through
Clear blue sky.
Cherish this
One chance.

It seems like fluff,
A superfluous,
Meandering waste
Of time that could
Be spent multitasking.
A poem asks for
Release,
A letting go of
Boundaries
And preconceived notions
Of what is important.
It’s omission
leaves barren
The plains of thought
And heart
Which only thrive
Behind the mind’s eye,
An ocean of waving grass
Cut before the
Purples of autumn
Can grace its millions of
Slim and willowy
Stems.

The woods are quiet
This morning,
Footfalls on wet leaves,
The subtle rustle
Of Autumn.
I imagine you
Beside me,
Time a spiral,
Rather than a circle,
Growing older
But never old,
Wise and Stately
Like trees.

You are the other me,
Wrapped around,
Squeezed between,
And embedded
In who I am.
Daily ventures,
The wanderings of
Memory,
Fueled by the
Constant conversation
With you in
My heart.
Patterns emerge
From random sky
Which only you
Could untwist
From rolling clouds.
Rays of sun
Spill forth,
And I know you
See it,
Too.

I listen to darkness fall,
Sounds of the light
Fading,
An interlude of silence,
The hesitant beginnings
Of nocturnal chorus.
It is the interlude
That captivates,
The transfer of voice
To kindred spirits
Of the other side.
Tonight’s choir is lively,
The air pulsing,
The exclamations of
Owls marking each verse.
The cold will soon chase the
Singers southward,
Expanding the envelope
Of darkness,
Stretching the silence
Thin like wire.

You circle slowly,
Waiting for an in,
A chance to catch
One narrow shaft of light
As it streams
Through the narrow
Break in the clouds.
The night has been
Opened by light,
Edges of the field
Laced with dancing
Branches,
The shadows of
A full moon.
The opening is brief,
You slide past
The fuzzy margin
Between what is,
And what we believe.
Whether you were
Really here is only
A question
Posed by
Those whose
Faith is fenced
By the rules
Of others.

You ask what it means,
These words
loosely tied together,
the threads,
Colors and patterns
That are only today,
Written in slanted
Script across
Unlined paper.
Things float
To and fro,
Cresting and ebbing
Like a tide,
Connected to the moonlight,
And every other thing
In the sky.
Asking breaks the spell
Woven between my thoughts
And yours,
Rendering
It meaningless.

The harvest has started,
Glistening beards of
Wheat and barley
Swaying for the last time.
Cut, thrashed and stripped,
Their long, golden bodies
Of straw strung
Into windrows within the dust.
There is a streaming sound
In the early night,
Small kernels flowing
Together into vast
Oceans of amber grain.
The coolness of the air
Signals an end to the day,
Early dew and ground fog
Toughening the pliant stems.
We will return tomorrow,
Catching the sunbeams of
Grain to ward off
The cold of
Winter.