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.

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.

Identity

In summer's green they look alike.
Only the shapes differ.

But at the crowning of each short life
their true selves are revealed
before floating away
forever.

               Gold
                              Crimson
   Orange   
                                      Magenta

                    Pink
  Purple
                               Maroon

             Yellow

Who are you beneath the mask
you wear for the world?

Hearts Hungry *

Hearts Hungry

for beauty, we
savor autumn's palette
before 
it slips away.

Souls longing
for stillness, we 
huddle in silence
gazing
at the stars.

Minds dreaming
of what could be, we
raise our arms
aiming
to touch the sky.

Souls yearning 
for communion, we
lift our faces 
to welcome
the breath of God.

* Title is inspired by words in Glenn Mitchell's Substack,  PrayerNotes from the Homestead.

Offerings

Sometimes words are not sufficient to capture the gifts

       of the season, nor the gratitude. These are my offerings.

 May they inspire you to notice the holiness of your moments on this cool, damp autumn day.

                                           Fruit and flowers

              Sages for the hummingbirds who have now moved on.

         Old outbuildings that now shelter our goats and chickens.

             The woods across the road whose color changes every day.

Subtle hues of the penstemon who will soon begin

                                 their long winter's nap.

      And a yard that, though past its blooming peak, is

   ripening seeds for all who will seek refuge

in the months to come.

May we each know the blessing of offering ourselves, each in our own unique way, to a world that so badly needs beauty and kindness in these troubled days.

If You Are Quiet You Can Hear the Leaves Fall

Reposting this is becoming an autumn tradition

If you are very quiet
you can hear 
the leaves fall,
following
their twirling, swirling dance
with your ears
as well as your eyes, 
until they come to rest
gently
at your feet.

Amidst the 
gales 
that loosen
their grip,
even amidst the 
tumult
that rages
in your mind, 
if you stop, and
if you will yourself
to listen, 
you will hear their
falling-gently-to-earth whispers, 
as they rustle through
their companions
on the once-in-a-lifetime
descent.

Background noise
fills my mind
right now...
Outer noise of destruction, 
of greed, 
of power wielded wrongly.
Inner voices of fear,
of sadness, 
of outrage, 
of powerlessness...
noise that will surely drown me 
if I let it and
render me deaf, 
even to the Good.

And yet,

in stillness,
I can notice that
which is beyond
myself
and all my thoughts.
Gazing at
the trees of autumn,
standing and swaying
in the winds
that strip their leaves,

Grace breaks through.
I am renewed.

If you are very quiet, you can hear the leaves fall. 
Listen....

This Misty Morning

The fog is a blanket this morning,

shielding me, as I sit on the front porch,
from the curious eyes
of neighbors.
But I can see all that I wish to
of my world, shrouded 
in the mist and
the sounds of wild things.

The chipmunks seem in a determined frenzy, 
hurriedly stocking up on the seeds
that will see them through the winter, and
the landscape is painted with
muted golds and purples, as  
the orange coneflowers, 
the aromatic asters,
and the stalwart salvias bloom on, 
feeding lingering ruby-throats and
the myriad bumblebees still
buzzing through the gardens.

Against the backdrop of cricket's and katydid's
early autumn songs,
the first ruby-crowned kinglet and
purple finch appeared in the
old apple tree, 
the kinglet boldly flitting through
the branches, apparently finding enough
prey to make its foraging worthwhile,
the finch still, cautious and watchful,
carefully weighing the dangers of this 
unfamiliar landscape before
settling in at a feeder, 
eager to dine after its journey from
the north.

I am swathed in gratitude this morning.
All I did was place seeds and small plants
into the ground last spring and they,
of their own accord,
have erupted into bounty.
The Creator, who has  been thusly
providing for all of life in the same manner,
is smiling. 
And I am smiling too on this foggy
October morning, thankful to be
partners with God.