Sun casts the sea in silver,
low slanted light skimming
off the water, gleaming
like vast ornamental plates
beset with wooded islands
more fallen from heaven
than raised by the sea.
I am watching, gathering
images like late apples,
storing vision
for winter nights.
The air grows still
with silent pressure urging
the weight of discovery,
inner ear trembled
by the sound of night;
everything dark, suggestive
of hidden life poised to emerge,
frightening yes, but who we are
beneath the noise and uncertainty.
Driving through the rough-hewn gate
past the carved wooden sign
and down the gravel lane,
I found the broad russet hay field
lifted into autumn maple
or perhaps rising up
to greet me like an old friend.
Every tree and trembling fern
a voice in the slanted sunlight,
the rubbed bronze earth
reaching out with a song.
The rain came softly
in velvety mist
falling on the wet turf
and our Saturday shoulders
as we watched the match
one grandson streaking forward
another beside me
enjoying the gray clouds
and steady blanket of moisture
no umbrella or parka for him
where home feels like rain
and the way we stand together
heads lifted to the gift
the squish of our rain soaked shoes
sounding in the green grass of autumn.
The season is turning
with the aroma of fall;
the earth exhales, the scent
of leaves and open ground
fill the air with her essence.
The thud of boots
and grinding wheels
obscure the delicacy
of her rising
yet even the timid
take heart in autumn
letting go like trees
in the wind.