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.