As the Sun Set Gold

As the sun set gold on the first day

of the new year

he climbed to the mountaintop

seeking a place

as thin as the shell of a bird's egg

where he could pray to the

small hobgoblins and great minds

of the heroes of inconsistency -

those trail-less wanderers blazing

New Paths

that great cloud of witnesses

and he waited and

held court in hushed reverence and

prayed in tongues of wood and spirit

The wild birds were the first to show

singing the most ancient psalms

Then, Uncle Ralph rose from the grave

and began drumming

thum thum thum

on the side of a hollow log

a song of unsettled hope

Sister Rachel joined in song

an untiring song of beauty

and mystery

The Healer, King

rose up, too,

and preached a sermon,

saying that darkness can't drive out darkness

and then the sun set

and we all held hands

and prayed onward into the night,

confident that the next day would come

and that

in the meantime

we had each other.

When, At Last, the Sun Sets

When, at last

the sun sets,

it will set upon you

and upon me

equally

and the moon

will suffice in the near-darkness

and

should there be no moon

and the stars are covered by clouds

let us hold hands

and find our peace

together

in darkness

And Brighter Leaves

I dreamed I was

an old black leaf

littered along the way

 

and brighter leaves

joined there with me

and we went from night to day

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"