May It Be - A Poem for Thanksgiving 2025

 

Let wandering sassafras roam the garden
let Beauty meander where it will
overtopping staid intentions
for what should
be.

Let autumn's asters reseed with abandon
let Wisdom blow across the land
scattered as by a breath
to barren places
lacking life.

Let rivers rise across the floodplain
let Truth be carried by the current
deposited as fertile silt
rejuvenating weary
minds.

Let rain patter gently on all the lands
let Love soak into thirsty ground
softening arid soils and souls
becoming part of all
that is.

Life Calls to Life

 

Every scrap of remaining beauty
every last
autumn-tinted leaf hanging from a twig
or lying
still vibrant on the forest floor

Every morning clothed in mist
every drizzly
day of rain pattering on spent gardens
or frozen fields 
frosted white at sunrise

Every cardinal's clipped chip note
every whitethroat's
sweet whistle in the hedgerow
or the junco's
bell choir in the winter meadow

Every moment holy

On This Cloudy Damp November Morning

On This Cloudy Damp November Morning

chickadees chortle
in the gnarled old apple tree
whitethroats whistle
in the mist
and drab goldfinches gather
to glean from spent coneflowers
and the Susans.

Breezes brush through
sassafras’s last ruby-red leaves
and pawpaw’s clinging gold
stirring the hazelnut’s burnished copper
and witch hazels’ butter-yellow blooms.

Surrounded by autumn’s gifts
no one is richer
than me.

Savoring Every Scrap of Beauty - A November 7th Garden Pictorial

 Savoring every scrap of subtle beauty before winter’s long rest.

I Want To Be That Child Again

 

I Want To Be That Child Again

who skipped down the sidewalk past porches
     decorated with jack o' lanterns, black cats and witches' hats

who stuffed her pockets
     with as many acorns and hickory nuts as she could carry

who searched for red and yellow and orange leaves 
     to bring home and press in the family encyclopedia

who floated boats made of walnut halves with toothpick sails
     in the nearby pond

who gathered grass and dirt and pine needles
     to craft a nourishing soup for her imaginary friends

who standing arms outstretched in the swirling leaves
     knew autumn would last forever.

Marking Time

 I am reprising this poem from last year in praise of the colors and coming of fall.

The kinglets have come
ruby-throats are gone
and today I heard the sapsucker's
whine.

Gold plated pawpaws
crimson painted sassafras
frost asters blanket the fields
in lace.

Red-tails circle above,
white-throats rustle through the garden,
and days like black walnut leaves,
float one-by-one
away.

What If We Have It Wrong About Aging?

As leaves crimson
does the chokeberry long
for May
when
covered with snowy blossoms
she beckons
to wild bees?

Beauty's blaze
faded
does she rue
her bare branches
where cardinals
perch
to devour 
bitter berries?

Ripening over
the course 
of a lifetime
we
offer our
fruit 
to the world.