September 15.19

September night

thick-aired, damp,

heavy with weight of day,

slow as prayer

raises the moon

ruddy gold

soon ice white

but,

for this brief Now

of autumn rite,

glowing fermata

over a thousand crickets

piping.

 

 

September 14.19

I cannot think a thought

pen a treatise or a ballad

explaining mystic morph

from yellow frill to salad.

 

 

 

September 11.19

Death sets a table

for Loneliness,

snuffs the light of expecting,

feasts on emptiness.

And yet

the planting

defiant

makes the earth take seed.

We must think of both.

 

9/11

With more thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.

 

 

September 10.19

Amid the dense green

of new autumn

Old Sol shines

in summer’s late petal

Midas-touching the leaves

round about

while seed feathers

tickle cloud tummies.

 

Many more thanks to photographer S. W. Berg.

September 8.19

The art of persuasion

knows how to combine

a shy little house

and come-hither sign.

With so simple a glyph

Demosthenes’ voice

summons me in:

I’ve absolutely no choice.

 

Thanks yet again to photographer S.W. Berg.

 

 

 

September 7.19

Gather ye pollen

while ye may

in warm and bright

September day.

Tender zest,

to flower,

 to seed —

thus does garden

(and life)

proceed.

 

With apologies to Robert Herrick.

 

 

September 5.19

There is yearning

in the looking up.

The unattainable,

marbled with secrets,

lures.

The gulls

in swooping arabesque

mock me with their indifference.

But still I reach.

There is that dream —

you know the one? —

Alone,

I soar,

scared and joyful,

lifted not by wings

but

(I think)

 by self.

 

 

Thanks to photographer S.W. Berg for this beautiful capture.