evening crawls toward its end
heavy head leans to hand
eyelids closed tight
as mind drifts toward sleep
brief review of day
contemplation of what is to come
then silence
quiet
return
Tag: time
Return to Morning
Hairs in the damndest places—
Sticking out of ears and nostrils,
Sprouting on shoulders too.
Yet suddenly sparse
Upon the summit
Where once the forest stood.
The trees that remain
Fade in color,
yet glisten pure and bright,
Catching light,
the darker growth once swallowed.
The forest thins.
The dome beneath
Opens to sky—
as if return to morning,
the bare crown
lifted toward first light.
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Sans Tempo
A note—
E, D, C♯—
held, not going anywhere.
The rose at the window—
petal and spiral,
not in stages.
The notes fall like sand—
broken,
and whole.
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The Year Begins Again
The year begins again, before we ask,
arriving as the light does—simply so.
We do not grieve what has passed.
Too few the days, the weeks, the months, the years
still allotted to our keeping.
We do not hold them, nor pretend to save;
we meet the hour as it comes, unadorned,
and give it back in care, as best we can.
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Autumnal Note for October 28, 2025
Just returned from a brief errand. As I drove east along Lake Avenue in Lakewood, the autumn foliage was at its radiant peak, a kaleidoscope of living color, and the mid-morning sun—at 10:50—displayed it to full advantage. Gemstones would be embarrassed, and rainbows would blush.
Upon reaching the Lakewood–Cleveland border, it was clear the colors were not as vivid. So moved was I by the brilliance I had just witnessed that I immediately turned back so that I could trace the same three-mile eastward path once more, simply to behold again the wonder of dancing color, of light and leaves. It was a small diversion of time and effort that gladdened the heart, soothed the soul, and reminded me how splendiferous autumn can be—more wondrous than any peacock’s fan of tail could ever hope to be.
