A Solo Crow Cries

 

There's so much to do,
But the waving plants beckon,
And the cool fresh wind.

 

It's almost noon now;
The sun is bright and subdued--
Autumn paradox.

 

 Lush bush has turned brown;
But look--there are vibrant leaves--
Still, the green survives. 

Lawn is neatly trimmed--
The children must be inside;
Hens peck near the swing.

Lying on its side,
Weary ladder is broken;
Waiting for garbage.

A solo crow cries,
Again and again he calls;
At last he's answered.

 

Shadows paint the rock
And sculpt it with dark fingers,
Ignoring hardness.

I look for my friend,
Realizing that he's not there. 

(Where could he have gone?)

 

Goodbye, Friend Peter

Autumn rustling wind
Gently shakes the naked trees;
Wood chimes clack softly.

Bright sun is shining;
I answer a phone message:
Dear Peter has died.

There's always a hush
When someone special has died--
Soft clouds in the heart.

A strong gust of wind--
Mirrors in the stream dissolve
Into blind ripples.

First time since last Spring
I need to put on my gloves;
This wheel of seasons.

There, way up ahead,
A band of wild turkeys
Cross the divide.

Once abandoned house
Is abandoned once again--
Goodbye, friend Peter.

  The children don't play
On the swing or in the yard,
This hushed afternoon.

 

 A few large white flakes
Flow so gently to the ground
And then the flurry.

Then, it's memory.

 

Moth in the window
Pressing flat, and still as death.
Why doesn't it move?

 

 Suddenly the sun,
And a burst of light and joy;
Then, it's memory.

 

 The porch flower pot
Has brown leaves about to fall.
Miniature Autumn.

 

 Soft billowing clouds
Rise behind skeletal trees--
Mountains in the sky.

 

Giant old brown leaf
Perched from where it began.
It's journey's not done.

 

 Walking with a stick
Young man taps and swings his way
Down the leaf strewn road.

 

From under dead leaves
Some new green ferns flourishes--
A burst of green light.

 

 Pungent, from the woods,
(But not disagreeable)
The smell of horse shit.

To A Place Not Seen

From sunlight to gloom;
Still, blue light pierces the greyness,
Before it's covered.

 

Outside, branches weave--
Wind conducts its symphony
Through the evergreens.

 

 On the second floor:
Filing cabinet in the door;
Wait! This is a barn!

Wise old tree spirit
Looks out blindly at the world.
Does she smile at us?

At side of the road--
Tiny touch of wilderness
Wraps around a fence.

Piece of the forest:
Deer glides softly across road,
Brown as fallen leaf.

My doggy friend Belle
Answers an ancient question
As her tail wags her.

Long the shadows stretch
Around the winding driveway
To a place not seen.

Poised for the Last Strike

Back on Yerry Hill
With a million shades of green.
(Still there are joggers).

Green yellow billows--
Forsythia on my lawn--
Leaves, and not blossoms.

Small orange berries--
The pumpkin color of Fall,
Punctuating it.

Everything is still,
This Sunday Scorpio morn;
Even streams whisper.

This broken old fence;
Many times it has called me--
In imperfection.

The old mother logs
Now cradle dead brown leaves
As well as lush moss.

Sumac silhouettes
Splashed against the mottled sky
Cast their own darkness.

Coiled on the hard road:
Snake run over by a car
Poised for the last strike.