For The Season Had Changed

 Although the forest was light
or at least, light enough,
he remained in the shadows, black

black, he was,
and sober as a grave
all stillness and breathlessly slack

the leaves beneath
his well worn shoes
were dark and damp and cold

for the season had changed
without and within
and he was tired down deep in his soul

Autumn Is, Herself, a Poem

 

Autumn is, herself, a poem

the chill fog laying over an early pond

the sweet gum dropping gold and red stars

the dried broom flowers reaching

upwards towards the sun

the Virginia creeper,

climbing a worn honeysuckle vine

an October frost dusting the field and flowers like sugar...

I'm not writing a poem

I'm telling you that

Autumn is, herself, a poem

Even Though Night May Come

Light won't always give way to dark

even though night may come

Say it again

Light won't always give way to dark

even though night may come

Even though night may fall all around
and the darkness seems nearly complete
even when hope is all but forgotten
even when joy's gone unseen

for the smallest candle will beat back the dark
and the dark perforce will retreat
and the flame from that candle can light another
and another
and another
and that light will reign supreme

And so, we know
Light won't always give way to dark
even though night may come

Setting in a Sycamore Leaf

I found the old sun

setting in a sycamore leaf

tired and resting on the sod

"How are you?" I asked

as politely as I could

knowing that her day was done

knowing that she crossed

the whole worried world

carrying with her a warmth so bless'd

"All is well" said she

with a whisper and a sigh

"'tis cool, and now I can rest"