Ode To A Sunday Morning.
I like quiet in the house,
like a church before the service,
Or the deep woods on a day
with no wind to make the leaves
chatter like children at play.
After the night
I start my day
thinking about my dreams
and directing a stream
of chaos into a plan
for the next steps
that will take me to nightfall
once again.
I count it worth considering
that a dream
might contain my voice
and hold my attention.
But know that I might turn away
at any time that I hear
the chickadee’s concerto
or am captured
by one perfect petal
cast down on the lawn
by an impatient tree
that must make room
for its cloak of green
to suit the Summer sun.
Time waits in the wings
not caring where I go
but seeing that
I return to sit
on my moss-covered wall
where time stops
but silence moves
the day closer to its end.
It writes a play I perform
in my dreams
as sleep lifts the curtain
on another world.
Winter Walks
Your winter walk is much nicer than mine.
The sun shining on snow all around
with your branches, the perfect setting
for cardinals and others out getting
their food as best they can
taking a living off the frozen land.
But I sit and watch the rain come down
through my window in a far western town
where the white is all gone
but the moss is quite green.
Here I have left the leaves
for the shuffling towhees
and others out getting their meals
off a well soaked land where just last week,
on a rare sunny morn, a chickadee ate seeds
out of the palm of my hand just inches
from my beating pulse.
Living On Standby
I have no wish for quiet mornings to end.
Circumstance may someday send
me back to hew out my time
in a labor I don’t always love.
These new days at home create themselves
from obligation and inspiration.
I know which one I prefer.
But even the former weighs lightly
on my shoulders because it is mine
and I can mold it like the clay
I love to shape with my hands,
the wood on my bench,
or the gentle words that blossom like
the trees in my yard.
I find it hard to see a return
to giving myself to faceless capital
and a faithless way of spending
the best of my time.
The minutes that flow into hours
like the rattle of a rising tide
carry me inward to wash
the stones of a settled soul
that lives to imagine
each unhurried goal.
October 2020
I ask the rain and plead
with the cloudy sky
So many reasons to just ask why
have the days gone so fast.
in this tumble down year
that started so well?
for some it’s been pure hell.
Many others have just got by.
and my vision has tightened up
in the fall of the year
while leaves come down
like a child’s next tear.
As December draws us in
to the year’s last breath
we hold on to our
homes and our kin
knowing the season’s debt
is repaid in full
with the arrival of the next.
On Druid Time
There are stone circles from ancient times
on famous hilltops in misty climes.
But not in my backyard
although I see the honey bee
perform its timeless rites
and I invite the birds to my trees
and the feeders hanging there.
I take the time to share
the dappled shade with
any that would pass by
and keep company with the squirrels,
the deer, and all manner of creatures
while giving thanks for the sun.
So faithful in its rising
and the exquisite timing
of its daily setting,
it gives me the best hours to work
and a most welcome time
of rest.
I like quiet in the house,
like church before the service,
Or the deep woods on a day
with no wind to make the leaves
chatter like children at play.
After the night
I start my day
thinking about my dreams
and directing a stream
of chaos into a plan
for the next steps
that will take me to nightfall
once again.
I count it worth considering
that a dream
might contain my voice
and hold my attention.
But know that I might turn away
at any time that I hear
the chickadee’s concerto
or am captured
by one perfect petal
cast down on the lawn
by an impatient tree
that must make room
for its cloak of green
to suit the Summer sun. time
waits in the wings
not caring where I go
but seeing that
I return to sit
on my moss-covered wall
where time stops
but silence moves
the day closer to its end.
It writes a play I perform
in my dreams
as sleep lifts the curtain
on another world.
