August, a month of
Heavy air, morning mists and summer’s last hurrah.
Its sultry nights are drenched in humid air and thunder
With light shows between the clouds at midnight and
Rain hissing in the dark on the forest green.
Late summer dawns are still and thick and hang over
Flowers spent and gardens full.
In late August the earth speaks to me in fruits and vegetables,
Hay fields and corn rows, empty fields and full root cellars,
Reminding me that Summer’s end is near.
| Coastal dunes slide and slip into the sea
As the storm rolls on to the north. Gulls scurry to grab unfortunate crabs washed ashore by the crashing waves. Seaweed floats and ripples with the waves like grass in the wind and Salty sea spray coats the disinterested windows of empty houses on the shore. The tourists have all left for the season Leaving the ocean and beach to carry on with their lover’s dance, Un-witnessed and unashamed, with freedom and reckless abandon.
(2/23/17)
|
| Evening shadows shift
Through broken windows.
Chimney bricks slide down the roof Puddleing under the lilac bush.
Weeds spread into the driveway Reclaiming it for themselves.
When was this house built? Was it ever new?
The yard and doorframes bear witness To the families who grew here.
Long forgotten toys and broken swings Hide beneath the matted field grass.
A broken clothesline flaps in the gray autumn breeze and Sprung clothespins mold and rot into the ground beneath the broken posts.
Feral cats are now the only life that calls this old farm home, But birdsong still fills the rafters of the barn.
The barn that once held livestock Sits shifted on its foundation,
Listing and leaning to the south, Away from winter’s fierce winds.
The stately oak gracing the front yard is rotten and broken, Its fingers through the house roof.
Where did they go, the people Who called this place home?
When the last one left, Why didn’t they clean out the house?
Why not take the toys? Close the windows? Lock the doors?
Did they not know they were Never coming back?
The windmill out back has long ago Crashed into the apple orchard,
Breaking in to pieces as it fell and crushing the trees it had stood watch over all these years.
But in man’s absence The apple trees continue to produce.
The lilac bushes flower every spring in spite of Not being “cared for” in over 40 years.
The forest is slowing creeping back in to fill the void Left when the field was abandoned.
All that remains of the people who once called this spot of land home Is the family graveyard,
Where stones are carved with love and care, Preserving for all time the names and dates of those whose lives began and ended here.
But the lilacs don’t care about being preserved, The Oak is beyond pride and the buildings are slowly returning to the soil,
Just like the bodies beneath the stones. Another 40 years and the stones will be all that remains.
They will be all that is left to tell the story Of a time gone by.
The story of a house built to last a lifetime, a barn crafted with pride, The story of generations of a family who lived, worked and died on this land.
A story only the stones will remember. |
It is almost gone now,
Sadly diminished.
Only the hard and tough oaks
Remain to carry the song.
They sway less and less as
There is not much left to catch the wind.
But the wind still blows, it comes in waves and churns the ocean of trees.
One tree after another reacts to the wind’s hand, its push, its power.
Some bed in a flurry of dancing of limbs,
Some hold their ground, refusing to bend to the will of the wind.
The wildness of the wind comes in stages,
Craziest at the tree tops,
More subtle midway down with only a modicum of movement
Just feet above the ground.
I’ve often wondered if their roots feel the pull and tug of the wind.
Are they dying to let go of the earth and fly away?
And when the leaves have all fallen, the wind’s song fades completely,
Losing its soft voice.
The summer’s soft song is replaced by the harsh clacking of naked branches and
The howling of frozen limbs in the dead of winter’s endless nights.
I hate to see the leaf song go,
I will miss is warmth and rustling.
But I will hold its song within,
Deep within, and sing it to myself in the dark time to come
When all in solemn stillness sleeps.
The color outside my bedroom window is gone.
Yet evergreens stay to remind me of life’s continuance, always existing just below the surface.
The trees are stark silhouettes of gray,
Each branch and twig evident and asleep.
There is a new silence in the wood.
It is a soft, comforting, sleeping silence.
A hush of reverence,
A soothing of soul.
Awareness hangs liked smoke among
The naked branches.
It is an awareness of belonging, of no doubts,
Of confidence in the being and faith in the belonging.
And so they stand, the trees, in winter’s silence,
In perfect harmony with their place and mine.
Each a witness to the other and
Both a witness to the One.
I start at the edge of the woods,
In the bright shiny green chair.
But the sun moves,
Its fast shadow cooling my feet and the legs.
Cool air rises to take the sun’s place,
Filling its shadow.
So I move, dragging my chair,
Holding my phone and Mary’s book.
I sit again, read a few pages, then the
The sun moves and again I drag my chair.
My spot I choose by the marigolds doesn’t last either and once again
I move.
This time to the red chair by the driveway.
My book and phone follow as I know they will.
And now, as I sit on the driveway in the red chair,
The sun’s shadow creeps ever closer to my feet and
I realize there is nowhere else to go, nowhere to move to,
Nowhere else to be, but it’s alright, an ending of sorts, I guess.
I can leave my chair here, empty, on the driveway,
No one will notice, no one will come to move it.
I am no longer in anyone’s way.
Pumpkins roasting in the oven,
Canning jars full of summer bounty drying on the counter.
Carrots and beets are waiting in the cottage garden, waiting to be pulled and washed,
Blanched and put to rest in the freezer.
Summer’s tender fruits have come and gone.
Only the hardy and hardest of all remain.
The winter squash takes the place of its summer
Thin skinned cousins.
Hard beets, potatoes, and turnips
Wait to be dug and stored in the cellar.
Apples shine on the trees, enticing us to climb and gather.
Their red faces sparkle in the sun, begging to be picked and boxed.
So yet again, we preserve the jewels of summer to be cherished in the dead of winter,
They remind us of the taste of summer, when gardens are asleep and dreaming.
It is a soft and gracious October evening.
The wood-stove’s warmth seeps into every nook and cranny,
Warming me from the floor up.
I step out of a hot shower after coating my body with
The silky texture and fragrance of rosemary/lavender goats’ milk soap.
I wrap myself in soft cotton towels and robe and
Settle into my favorite chair for an evening of creating.
While I write, the clouds evaporate over my house and
Star light shines in through the skylight over my head.
The clear skies bring cold frosty night air to fog and freeze my windows.
But the warmth holds tight inside while the cold air presses against my door.
On this October night the stove will win, the moths will shiver, the crickets will fall silent and
Falling leaves will crackle and dance in the biting wind.
While I, in my soft warmth, will think of you and write of love in silence.
It is within the stillness between my heart beats and
The silence between my breaths that I have found my truth and freedom.
It is subtle, unimposing, but
All-encompassing and the only truth there is.
It is the only truth that need be, and the only reality that is eternal.
The truth is evident in the radiance that shines from the sleeping faces of babies,
And the soft sunshine on a clear blue autumn day.
My heart and soul accept the divine gift that has been given to me and I know now,
Beyond a doubt, that my freedom is of me and from me and
Mine alone to believe.
Evening shadows shift
Through broken windows.
Chimney bricks slide down the roof
Puddleing under the lilac bush.
Weeds spread into the driveway
Reclaiming it for themselves.
When was this house built?
Was it ever new?
The yard and doorframes bear witness
To the families who grew here.
Long forgotten toys and broken swings
Hide beneath the matted field grass.
A broken clothesline flaps in the gray autumn breeze and
Sprung clothespins mold and rot into the ground beneath the broken posts.
Feral cats are now the only life that calls this old farm home,
And birdsong still fills the rafters of the barn.
The barn that once held livestock
Sits shifted on its foundation,
Listing and leaning to the south,
Away from winter’s fierce winds.
The stately oak gracing the front yard is rotten and broken,
Its fingers through the house roof.
Where did they go, the people
Who called this place home?
When the last one left,
Why didn’t they clean out the house?
Why not take the toys?
Close the windows? Lock the doors?
Did they not know they were
Never coming back?
The windmill out back has long ago
Crashed into the apple orchard,
Breaking in to pieces as it fell
and crushing the trees it had stood watch over all these years.
But in man’s absence
The apple trees continue to produce.
The lilac bushes flower every spring in spite of
Not being “cared for” in over 40 years.
The forest is slowing creeping back in to fill the void
Left when the field was abandoned.
All that remains of the people who once called this spot of land home
Is the family graveyard,
Where stones are carved with love and care,
Preserving for all time the names and dates of those whose lives began and ended here.
But the lilacs don’t care about being preserved,
The Oak is beyond pride and the buildings are slowly returning to the soil,
Just like the bodies beneath the stones.
Another 40 years and the stones will be all that remains.
They will be all that is left to tell the story
Of a time gone by.
The story of a house built to last a lifetime, a barn crafted with pride,
The story of generations of a family who lived, worked and died on this land.
A story only the stones will remember.
heartwordsforpoetry 