Between Heaven and Stone

Abba, there’s a rush of Heaven-water out my window.

Sounds of earth and stones gulping, swallowing and gasping,

For more of Heaven’s gift.

Cool and pelting, still soft and warm

Against skin and mud and leaves.

Leaves,

Autumn burnt and crispy till,

Heaven wishes them soggy and limp.

The boldest ones still hang on branches

drip, drip, drip.

Almost xylophone, the pavement pings

a different tone

Than petal, blade or stone.

Night refuses to rest her head,

Keeps one lid drooping over dawn.

Always the Holidays

Apple-cinnamon aroma abreast the autumn air.

Lilting laughter lingers long.

Watching wild-eyed,

As ash alights the air from an ardent flame.

Youngest ogling yummy yams and yellow squash.

Sounds of shed leaves like shattering stain glass.

 

Always the warmth of holiday.

Always the fragrance of home.

Always the mirth and the longing.

Always sweet memory aching.

Dying Things

Fallen

Foliage fingerprints.

Prism mums,

Oft sunlight glints.

And dying things.

 

Flow’rs huddle low,

‘Neathe  coming cold.

Day dies young

With setting sun.

And dying things.

 

Bug’s knees creak,

Old, aging, weak.

Bedtime’s early,

Heads soft and curly.

Just sleepy things…