Friday, November 15, 2013


The brief chill
suspends all things in rime --
leaf and vine,
               pine needle
and stone nook

             where water
often trickles  down
into a sponge  of moss  -- the holy green

 in late Autumn
cushioning the  fall
               of  hard rain
or the  long day
on its knees from news
the wind delivered.

A shroud of frost
drapes the garden and still
there’s momentum

              in the ancient pines.
A sudden flare of wings  - blood red
among the many arteries
of bark.  Song birds sent

and pumped into brilliant
            by an Unseen Hand.

No comments: