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Sunday, September 21, 2014

Mixing with the Wind


Dappled through the trees
The farmhouse next door shines through
On this warm Sunday.

Ferns next to the house
Are beginning to turn brown--
Their winter garments.

Intricate clusters:
Each bloom in its tiny world
In front of my house.

The old barn is framed
Pale pink between bright orange--
An autumn pastel.

Some fragments of talk
Drift from the house on the hill,
Mixing with the wind.

Forest is still green
As if winter will not come.
(Leaves know otherwise.)

In his tense stillness
Chipmunk sitting by the road
Becomes a statue.

In the fungi's folds
A myriad of soft shads
Strangely welcoming.

Friday, September 19, 2014

Why Do They Do It?


Why do they do it?
Trying to be a cliché?
Chickens crossing road.

 It's getting colder
Even though the sun shines bright;
Moving to winter.


Shadow on the barn
Crisp as the morning air;
Bright as the blue sky.


 Leaves skitter softly--
Dry tap dances on the road;
Rushing to nowhere.


 Almost time for gloves;
Last week t shirts sufficed;
Brown leaves keep falling.


 There are always leaves
That hang on through the winter.
Expecting rebirth?


A telephone rings
In my pocket on my walk;
Two universes.

Faint whiff of flowers;
Unseen woodpecker drumming;
Senses of Fall.

Thursday, September 18, 2014

Warm and Welcoming

 Ladder on my lawn
Pointing towards the fat bushes.
Who will climb the lawn?

My kitchen table
Filled with plates and magazines.
There's no place to eat.

The arrows still point
For the cyclists who will pass
Many months ago.

It's tightfisted now:
Queen Anne's Lace holding its young
Ready for next step.

Suspended mid sky
The puffed cloud seems to hover.
(Is it watching me?)

 Forest miracle
Untouched by hands of humans
Lies just off the road.

Once a strong tree limb;
Now a pale pile of wood chips.
The men keep trimming.

Passing Ghost's stable;
Faint pungent smell of horse shit,
Warm and welcoming.

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

Butterflies and Leaves

An ocean of green
Still glistens outside my door.
Fall is forever.
Buddha is smiling;
Buddha is always smiling;
What's with the Buddha?
My strange porch plant grows;
From wind born seed and bird shit;
Who knows what is next?
 A touch of old friend:
Car stops, blink of discussion.
I feel much warmer.

In the shallow glen
A touch of sunshine is all
To make it magic.

Loud roaring machines
Splay metal octopi hands--
Men rip off tree limbs.

Large abandoned shack
Is abandoned once again
To grass and forest.

Butterflies and leaves
Do not pose for the camera
As they fly and float.


Monday, September 15, 2014

Falling Leaves are Late

Rooster near my porch?
Soon will be knocking on door.
(He's not a chicken.)

 The tree limb's bobbing
Under the weight of two squirrels
Leaping onto it.

 Reared against the sky
Pine cones hang from the tree top
Just touching the clouds.

 Falling leaves are late;
Bees are still sucking asters;
But squirrels are busy.

Clouds close, part again;
Continual curtain call
For the joyous sun.

Faint gasoline smell
Drifting up the empty road
Brings back memories.

Nestled in green leaves
A large brown dead leave is perched--
Fall performance art.

Collective buzzing,
But there are no bees to be seen.