"november's garden..".

soft as dusk she comes
to lay her mantle
along the rows of what is left when all
that once gave color has been harvested
and all that remains lies dry and brittle
waiting for the last gasp of Indian summer

a silent "job well done"
the kiss she settles on each tired brow
gathered stalks now wheat-hued
with november's chill once held full
green husks heavy with summer corn
and sweet peas climbing to reach
the sun's promise.

"shh, shh," she whispers as cool fingertips
stroke weathered branches, ancient roots
and bark as veined, smooth, and spotted
as grandmother's hands

for some this will be their last dance
beneath a harvest moon,
for others just a an intermission before
the next season of spring green taffeta
and innocent firsts

"first shoots pushing through dark soil,
first buds along a supple vine,
first burst of red sun and warm seeds"
the lullaby she sings to them
 under a blanket of frost and fog....

   

it comes unbidden...

there is something behind the facade
beneath the tangled vines of yesterday
hidden between the pedestrian shades of
who they think you are...faded, tired, a paradox

there is the peeking through of something lovely
something you've forgotten in the day-to-day demands
of all it takes to keep pace with schedules and budgets
calendars and grocery lists filled with milk and eggs

it comes unbidden when moonlight falls across
the ancient stones of holy ruins -- the rise and fall of you
a sliver of light breaking through that space where
mortar held together what now becomes a window on your soul

behind the fretwork of sophistry -- the royalty of roles
a place between the pickets where a simple shade of blue
holds the promise of resurrection, innocence, purity...