Sunday, November 22, 2009

Late November Afternoon

There is a comforting certainty
In this late November afternoon.

The earth is relenting its color
To the sky
With an almost gaudy display
As if to proclaim
Good night, to this departing day.
While life on a smaller scale, close by,
Settles itself
With a hope for rest and renewal.
As it wagers on the dawn.

Mice snuggle
Back to belly
In their milkweed down beds
In appropriated bluebird boxes.
Crows lumber overhead
Crossing the early crescent moon
Soon to roost and whisper secret stories,
While sparrows dart in the underbrush
Making final adjustments in their space,
Giving one last fluff to their feathers
They will cool with the night and be still.
A small bee that a month ago would
Have been lost in a grander world
Of blossoms and flying things
Now sits solitary
On a stray dandelion,
Resting still
Within the grasp
Of those golden teeth.

A slow wind turns a hanging leaf,
A friend responding to an unspoken word,
Guaranteeing in benediction
Continued movement forward.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Order in Disorder

There is order in disorder,
So not to worry about meaning…
It will find us.

I have selected a random (really?) location,
Trail side on rocks
Once cast up
Then worn down.

A very tiny spider
Walks a single invisible strand
Back and forth
It is very alive.

Lunching with the trees
That dropped their leaves and waited
For my arrival.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009


It was a time of innocence,
That was your gift to me
Your work and sacrifice.

Your applesauce,
You made each summer
From apples you bought
On rambling trips
To orchards in Vermillion
With your sister Eunice
Canned in our kitchen…
It protected me
For a few fine years:
Before the bomb
Before the blast of puberty
It softened the blows.
You kept me safe
For as long as you could…

It is a time more guileful,
And gifts are given and received more cautiously
Though we work and sacrifice and carry on.

My applesauce,
Picked from apple trees
that likely remember when,
And cooked in modern day hot waters
Can do so little
It only opens the door
And lets me look back
And see your apron through the steam.