A Thousand Shades of Gold

A thousand shades of gold

stretch out before my eyes.

Golds that are almost greens, 

and golds that are almost taupes,

golds that are almost yellows, 

and golds are almost browns.

A thousand shades of gold 

pull away from my eyes toward 

the hills all around and return 

back to me ennobling me to 

rise up and to settle down. 

The eyes have a way of relieving the 

heart and taking the sadness away.  

All around you through autumn they lay 

brewing and germinating themselves 

into a thousand shades of gold.  How

magnificent and mighty are the 

lineaments of courage which are ours

from the fire of the leaves.  And, no

matter their hue and no matter their

shade the sheer weight of their

gathered glory slays me.  Every year.

A Poem at Lunch

When on the road and distant 

lay the path toward home, the 

heart does long for simple tasks 

and acts well known. The common 

things of daily life which give us 

peace and end our strife these 

gentle kinds of rhythms take us 

back, to noble thoughts and endless 

grace, both means to elevate our 

space with a solemn love and hope 

that makes us human - one and all.

In plain beauty lay the power to make 

us whole, and vanquish our despair,

healing the soul.  The heart will pine

for what it knows and settle in when

once again upon those shores it feels 

itself at rest and deep repose.  Rest and

deep repose.

I Met a Man Today

I met a man today

who loves fishing

and wood working

and living his life.

We talked about

dialysis, and dying

and hospice between

our words about trout

and types of wood

we love to work with.

He wants to weigh 

his options; I want 

to hear more of his

stories of lumber and

piscatorial delight.

We will sit together 

again next week; and,

somewhere between

feelings and the fins

we will figure a way 

through his quandary.

However it goes we 

will thresh, and thresh,

and sit, and wait

“as Way Opens.”  Then,

we will figure out what

comes next.  Way

leads onto way.  

All We Are Asked

 Just now

while you are

at the grave

feeling

the full weight

of your loss;

there’s another

in your same

condition who

is also wondering

how they will

draw their next

breath.  Breathing in

doing the same,

hoping they will

meet someone who

knows what death

can do to instantly 

upend a life.

Someone like you.

And, those of us

who have not 

recently been bruised

by death, we 

would do well to

lace up our boots

each day remembering 

you may cross our 

paths today and need 

our stillness and 

grace.  We will 

hold space with 

you.  Helping you

to simply BREATHE.

Field-space

While driving about

I put my mind

in the cornfield, 

whether the corn 

is high or stubbed.

And I know my 

heart will follow.

Connecting the land

between the pieces 

of my me.  Mingled

among the brown or

green it does not take

long for me to dive 

full on into the dirt;

head, heart, and all.

Along the line of sight 

and feeling, the self 

sets out to play. The 

hands tend to follow the  

movement of the eyes.

The heart, the movement

of the mind.  It’s not long

before the whole of my

me is getting into the act.

Imagine my amazement

when the murmuration of

starlings first lit their curve

across the tree-line along

the edge of the road.  My 

eyes dragged my mind 

to their edges, first up 

and then down; first right 

and then left. Almost 

instantaneously I forgot 

my center as if I had lunged 

pell-mell into this echolocation 

of their movement through 

space. It takes an instant 

to be transformed, if we let

loose the reins of the soul.

Freedom is just that close.

On The Way

On the way 

to on the trail,

a perpetual lean 

toward moving ahead.

Burgundy and gold

sassafras under foot

and in the trees tickle

my eyes and soul into

recognizing we are

back in the thin time

again.  The time when

meaning is mingled and

multiplied by the dampening

aroma of leaves beginning to

become undone, by the wind in

the trees caressing and rattling,

and by piles of apples laden with 

the bodies and carcasses of 

yellow jackets consuming their

fill.  The orange lancets of the

sumac point us in every direction - 

to wander and wonder ourselves

into being undone for a season;

undone with the purpose of simmering 

in the strong and occasional 

warming sun of day.  Because.

Just because.  The becauses of Autumn

hold me close and tight; close and tight

to my being and my reason for

breath.  Because.  Because.  Because.

All of my becauses are hidden;

hidden in the beauty of the Fall.

Listen for Me

 

Listen for me just below the surface of 

the ground, below the face of the dirt.

Listen for me among the dry and almost barren trees of autumn as they let go.

I will be softly singing among the mycelia, and all around their fungi and their spores.

I will be the blow and rattle between the browning parched oak trees’ falling leaves.

I won’t be very far away, my fondness for the beauty of nature will keep me close.

I’ll be under every new greening piece of life, pushing itself up out of the soil.

I’ll be on the back of every piece of lice between the feathers of the croaking raven.

On molds, and newts.  In springs, and sand.  Aloft in zephyrs and tornadoes all.

Every quark and quasar will whisper my hope; each star and nebula my poems.

I will not escape beyond the beyond that has riveted my soul with wonder and awe.

I will have nowhere else to go, but everywhere.  Listen for me and look.