Beacons Unreachable

Crowned with gold by the rising sun
         the tree tops taunt me

They reign joyously in their airy empyrean
         illuminated, exalted, beacons unreachable
                   from the vale of shadow in which I stand

Down upon the earth,
         the grasses tangle in an untidy carpet
                   dull and trampled, littered by crumpled brown leaves

The mock orange has lost half its foliage
         and the ragged fronds
                   reveal ivy encroaching from its roots

The memory of bridal blossoms, a mix of glad buds
         half-unfurled petals, and flowers full-blown
                   cannot charm, as unreachable as the crowned oaks

The glory of autumn gone
         nature half-dead lacks the clean clarity of winter
                   messiness drowns in dimness, made yet more dim
                         by the brilliance of the overarching heavens

As the dawning progresses to full morn
         light will reach the shadows, dispelling them

Would that it might reach me

In memory of my mother:
Too Late
One Crossing
Grievous Loss



Too Late

               furled soft pink
                    the petals of a late summer rose

          The air should be langorous
               abuzz with bees
                    demanding the wafting of a fan for comfort

          Matte green
               traced by veins with a hint of red
                    the rose leaves are all they should be

          But the air chills my face
               crisp, autumnal
                    and the rose petals are brittle, frozen

          The month is November
               not the August
                    to which I cling


In memory of my mother:
Beacons Unreachable
One Crossing
Grievous Loss



One Crossing

   now the grief is sharp
   my mother, oh, my mother
   come back, please, come back

   let me hear your voice
   let me touch your hand
   let me kiss your cheek

   you are dear to me, so dear
   my heart breaks that you have gone
   between one breath and the next you were gone

   oh, Mother, my mother
   return to me
   I want you back

   the pain is sharp
   but no one returns from that last departure
   I know it even as I beg for your return

   between one breath and the next, you slipped from the flesh
   freed spirit sitting easily, smiling
   you stood without thought, happy, and walked onward

   there is no crossing the same river twice
   I struggle with that truth
   longing for you


In memory of my mother:
Missing Her
Grievous Loss




   a fire burnt in my being
          in the depths
          in the darkness
          at the heart

   fire to create
   fire to love
   fire to be

          but grief has translated me through time and space
          away from myself

   o, bring me the burning coal
   heart, where is thy passion?
   fire, where is thy flame?

   even the ashes are absent


In memory of my mother:
Missing Her
One Crossing
Grievous Loss




    I have gone long past autumn
    The brilliance is fled
    Soft somberness cloaks me
         as I mourn


    The winter has not come yet
         to close down this inbetween interval


    I tread the shredded leaves underfoot
    Damp from yesterday’s rain, they do not rustle
    There should be weeping
         as I mourn


    But the season’s death is soft, weary;
         it drags and muffles, does not cut


    I stand beneath dark outstretched boughs
    Remembering another tree, flanked by two like it
    My heart weeps, but my eyes merely ache
         as I mourn


    The clarity of the distant sky has vanished,
         coming close to mingle with the soft air, removing hope


    Lost between my loss and an unknown future,
    I am alone and forsaken,
    Too weary to find my way
         as I mourn


In memory of my mother:
Missing Her
One Crossing
Grievous Loss



A Beautiful Morning

So many of the early mornings this summer were beautiful. That of September 5th charmed me so utterly that I wrote about it in my journal. Since I am head down in the exciting final scenes of my current novel – and prefer not to take sufficient time away from it to write a blog post – I’m going to share that morning with you. 😀

September 5, 2016

Clear sky this morning, deep blue to the south, paler hue overhead, shading down to a soft warm white above the mountains to the west.

Crickets sing in the grass, their droning music punctuated by small tuneful chirps, crows in the distance, melodic twitters from songbirds nearer by. Sun brightens the trees of the slope across the way. Magical.

Sunlit weedsThe back yard is still in shadow, muted greens; golden light hits the upper branches of the holly, so tall it rises above the ridge.

The inner reaches of the maples are quite lovely, a mosaic of shadowed leaves and sunlit ones with pieces of sky showing through.

. . . “the same summer will never be coming twice.” Never quite the same.

quote from
Anne of Ingleside,
L.M. Montgomery



Autumn Flame

Cooler air, dampness rising from cold earth, gray skies.

The season turns, and I turn inward, seeking warmth.

Warmth of the hearth, warmth of the heart, blankets.

I laugh with my family. I simmer soup on the stove. Here in the heart of our home.

Then comes a pale, clear day when the sun and the flaming trees astonish me.

Warmth of beauty draws me out.

Autumn flame 600 px

For more photos:
An Autumn Branch