Leaves Before the Wind

We have walked, looked at the actual trees:
The chestnut leaves wide-open like a hand,
The beech leaves bronzing under every breeze,
We have felt flowing through our knees
As if we were the wind.

We have sat silent when two horses came,
Jangling their harness, to mow the long grass.
We have sat long and never found a name
For this suspension in the heart of flame
That does not pass.

We have said nothing; we have parted often,
Not looking back, as if departure took
An absolute of will–once not again
(But this is each day’s feat, as when
The heart first shook).

Where fervor opens every instant so,
There is no instant that is not a curve,
And we are always coming as we go;
We lean toward the meeting that will show
Love’s very nerve.

And so exposed (O leaves before the wind!)
We bear this flowing fire, forever free,
And learn through devious paths to find
The whole, the center, and perhaps unbind
The mystery

Where there are no roots, only fervent leaves,
Nourished on meditations and the air,
Where all that comes is also all that leaves,
And every hope compassionately lives
Close to despair.

May Sarton

Frost on October

O hushed October morning mild,    
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;    
To-morrow’s wind, if it be wild,    
Should waste them all.  
The crows above the forest call;            
Tomorrow they may form and go.  
O hushed October morning mild,  
Begin the hours of this day slow,   
Make the day seem to us less brief. 
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,

imageedit_6_8275560416
Beguile us in the way you know;    
Release one leaf at break of day;   
At noon release another leaf;   
One from our trees, one far away;   
Retard the sun with gentle mist;            
Enchant the land with amethyst. 
Slow, slow!


For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,    
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,  
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—            
For the grapes’ sake along the wall.

##Robert Frost



Gathering Leaves – Robert Frost

Spades take up leaves
No better than spoons,
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.
I make a great noise
Of rustling all day
Like rabbit and deer
Running away.
But the mountains I raise
Elude my embrace,
Flowing over my arms
And into my face.
I may load and unload
Again and again
Till I fill the whole shed,
And what have I then?
Next to nothing for weight,
And since they grew duller
From contact with earth,
Next to nothing for color.
Next to nothing for use.
But a crop is a crop,
And who’s to say where
The harvest shall stop?

What Shall I Do

fear 4

What is this take and give

I ask the autumn sky

What of the beauty mistreated

What ofFears 1

What if

Searching here for years

Searching to give meaning to the fears

I swear to the shadow cast upon the leaf strewn ground

I will keep coming until I am found.fear 3

No matter,

the tears of fallen fear

Same Time Next Year

It is just that time of year Close, cropped and clear. Sticks and stones Rusted root and barren husk.. left on chalky bone... Down a lightly beaten path On a clear day...we have all been here before. We have all opened the vine embraced gate and the piney green doors. With a care for the world and, same time next year... there will be more gifts to bring... More ends to a means. Stenciled lillies Languishing loons Lazy afternoons. So, stare into the sun Grasp at the straw Reep what others sow. These are the days in which night falls too soon. Hours in which the wheat grass bends and toils to reach high noon. This time every year This time when darkness becomes light and weariness draws too near. Every year Farmer's markets abound with Indian corn Little houses on the side of the road... covered in a thistle's forlorn. Funny to watch the natural sway The difference between tomorrow and today. The days out of time The hills that we climb The seasons of the mind. Same time next year Same time when weariness draws near.
It is just that time of year
Close, cropped and clear.
Sticks and stones
Rusted root and barren husk..
left on chalky bone…
Down a lightly beaten path
On a clear day…we have all been here before.
We have all opened the vine embraced gate
and the piney green doors.
With a care for the world
and,
same time next year…
there will be more gifts to bring…
More ends to a means.
Stenciled lillies
Languishing loons
Lazy afternoons.
So, stare into the sun
Grasp at the straw
Reep what others sow.
These are the days
in which
night falls too soon.
Hours in which the wheat grass bends and toils to reach high noon.
This time every year
This time when darkness becomes light
and weariness draws too near.
Every year
Farmer’s markets abound with Indian corn
Little houses on the side of the road…
covered in a thistle’s forlorn.
Funny to watch the natural sway
The difference between tomorrow and today.
The days out of time
The hills that we climb
The seasons of the mind.
Same time next year
Same time when weariness draws near.

seasons out of time

Seasons out of timeseasons out of time