Hymn of Autumn
When the moon becomes a mellow pear
on twilight’s bough, and stars swirl up like maple leaves
before they’re swept into the dawn, I’ve often
walked this garden where the voice of whippoorwills
would carry remnant melodies across long, dusky
hours. At times I feel this eastern breeze has lifted
me, somehow, beyond the soft-lit sloping fields
and conifer lined hills. To lands where only goldenrod
has known me by my smile, and dampness soothes
the head of every yellow aster bloom. Tonight, before
the morning’s crest of ruby will extend through broken
clouds, I whisper prayers again to autumn:
take me there once more.
When the moon becomes a mellow pear
on twilight’s bough, and stars swirl up like maple leaves
before they’re swept into the dawn, I’ve often
walked this garden where the voice of whippoorwills
would carry remnant melodies across long, dusky
hours. At times I feel this eastern breeze has lifted
me, somehow, beyond the soft-lit sloping fields
and conifer lined hills. To lands where only goldenrod
has known me by my smile, and dampness soothes
the head of every yellow aster bloom. Tonight, before
the morning’s crest of ruby will extend through broken
clouds, I whisper prayers again to autumn:
take me there once more.
Pushcart Prize Nomination 2009
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Flower Child
She was the porcelain child,
dressed in burgundy velvet
with patent leather shoes
that were never unlaced,
who carefully collected biscuit crumbs
off her mother's tablecloth
so as to never leave a mess,
who fell asleep to stories of Peter Pan,
dark lashes fluttering
through dreamy pictures of princesses
and ponies. She was the child whose father
lingered on her flower patterned
bedspread at midnight, and blew
her childhood away like dandelion down
on a whim of morning.
She was the child
who refused to wear ruffles and lace,
yearning to grow up faster
than wild daisies
that twisted between muddy fences
near the woodland.
She was the child who kept secrets
tucked in a silver box beneath her pillow--
until her mother pried it open
and watched them roll across the floor
like transparent marbles. She was the girl
who would ladle out more sympathy
on the downtrodden than their
outstretched souls could hold, and spent
lunch money to feed
beggars by the dumpster—
befriending all those battered in silence.
She is the woman who cannot shoulder disrespect
in any form, whose feet have grown
tender searching for dandelions
in evening meadows.
Pushcart Prize nomination 2010
She was the porcelain child,
dressed in burgundy velvet
with patent leather shoes
that were never unlaced,
who carefully collected biscuit crumbs
off her mother's tablecloth
so as to never leave a mess,
who fell asleep to stories of Peter Pan,
dark lashes fluttering
through dreamy pictures of princesses
and ponies. She was the child whose father
lingered on her flower patterned
bedspread at midnight, and blew
her childhood away like dandelion down
on a whim of morning.
She was the child
who refused to wear ruffles and lace,
yearning to grow up faster
than wild daisies
that twisted between muddy fences
near the woodland.
She was the child who kept secrets
tucked in a silver box beneath her pillow--
until her mother pried it open
and watched them roll across the floor
like transparent marbles. She was the girl
who would ladle out more sympathy
on the downtrodden than their
outstretched souls could hold, and spent
lunch money to feed
beggars by the dumpster—
befriending all those battered in silence.
She is the woman who cannot shoulder disrespect
in any form, whose feet have grown
tender searching for dandelions
in evening meadows.
Pushcart Prize nomination 2010
 |  |  |  |  |
Photography by Brenda Levy Tate