Acorns

Up the hill and down the road
around one bend and then another

boys on bikes and I on foot
as brother chases after brother

'til we reach the silent oak
that feels the sigh of mid September

and gently lets her acorns go
to wait through winter, each an ember

holding onto sparks of spring.
We collect these in our pockets

to plant in pots or string on strings,
to coax to life or give new scope

as parts of arts or crafty things.
We sit there, shaded by the branches,

idly talking in the grass
fitting acorns with berets:
tiny gentlemen trying on hats.

Nostalgia of Middle September

As if God had turned the world upside down
an ocean of gray cloud floats over our town.
Hinting at blue, an inverted horizon
makes strange fish of all the birds I lay eyes on.

This is one of those in between days
when the sun has gone sly, and is hoarding its rays.
Every breeze holds a scent I remember.
How deep, the nostalgia of middle September.

Cool air through the window, smelling of wishes...
Warm suds on my forearms, plunged deep with the dishes...
Lazily soaping and rinsing a ladle...
Lullabies sway through my mind, like a cradle.

The inhale and exhale of Autumn's first gust,
colored with aster and goldenrod dust:
a peaceful reflection of spirit that brings
the quiet affection of everyday things.

Nothing given can be stolen

I asked the Lady River why

furred in green leaf, robed in sky

she went along with tresses pinned

with glints of shells along their wend.

In lilac, bistre, peach, and wine,

celadon and cream most fine--

Why jealously adorn the stream

where sunlight glints and gold carp teem?

You do not understand, said she,

My waters hold no jealousy

for I'm a master of my trade--

polishing the shines God made.

This beauty, offered for the taking,

I give. I had no part in making.

Be my banks stone dry or swollen

nothing given can be stolen.

Of the Beetle

In belled depths of that blue blossom
petite vermilion beetle spotted black
bears the burden of the blessed pollen's
verdant promise on his dainty back.

Down straight stalks and up again

from bell to bell he makes his way

and sweetly sleeps inside a flower

at the closing of each day.

Blossoms pay him with their nurture.

By petals from the spiders hidden

he conjures flowers of the future

where by nectar he is bidden.

Of Chicory

For coffee's sake, I mean to dig the chicory

but when time comes to dig, I can't.

Too in love am I with the tenacity

of that midsummer heat defying plant.

Drawn to Water

Some hearts are drawn to open water--

if not oceans, lakes where herons 

fly low and steady over the changing
ever-same surface. My heart flits
after those shallows-ruling kings
out and back again
like some tree swallow
dreaming restless dreams.

Some hearts are drawn to open water,
but not mine. Not oceans or lakes
nor even rivers. Too much of sky
weighing down water; too much water
restless under sky.

My heart is drawn to brooks and streams
where hidden stone stands steady
sending water on its way. Every second
an exchange, a quiet newness
rushing onward unhurried,
change without fear of change.

My feet long to walk cold, sandy
stream beds, where water wends
past roots; where every
curve holds a harbor 

hiding minnows,
and every pebble tested by currents
is made and found beautiful;

Where the sycamores reach
for far banks, sending freed leaves 

and silent strength
downstream, steadfastly guarding
secret places, there I gladly
lose my heart in the flow of shallow
water, not fretting
getting back, or
getting on with things.

I have been painting

I have been painting--not masterworks--
just chicken coops, bird houses.
A pan, a roller. Whatever paint
I can find stored in the cellar.
A blue chicken coop with eggshell trim.
A rich cream rough plywood
Purple Martin tower.
Layers of paint for my egg layers.
Layers of paint in the plastic pan.
Gathering in the sights,
the sounds of birds;
the speckled, brown eggs,
the sloughed off feathers.
At the end of the day, obsessively
peeling paint strips from the plastic
tray basin--a scurf
of cream over blue, a beauty
for discarding--the daily business
of the universe, the steady breath
of making and un-making.