Autumn wings haiku

Familiar cheeping
at dusk, out on the front porch
-can it really be?

Opening the door
a fluttering of feathered wings
-the finches remain?

Should I be so blessed?
I shall need to buy some seed
for the frost has come.

House Finch with Goldfinch. beaucon. CC BY-NC 2.0.

House finches are regular nesters in my front door wreath from Eastertime through the summer; I have not been aware of their remaining so close by in the autumn months. They aren’t nesting now and as yet I haven’t ascertained where exactly they’re living, only that it’s somewhere near the porch. I see them fly when we pull up in the driveway, and when we open the front door. I can’t even get a good look at them; they’re being evasive.

Their presence lifts my spirit immeasurably: Take heart, be of good cheer, we are still here… the fluttering of wings was so near my face when I opened the door in the dark after hearing the familiar bird voice. It wasn’t alarming. Out in the yawning chasm of night flew the little bird, with my soul tethered to it by inexplicable hope.

Man and dog

On my drive to work
at the stop sign
where the grassy green field
borders the rail-fence pasture
where two horses graze
beside the goat pen
where fat little
brown-and-white goats
rest atop their knees
beside the still waters
of the glassy pond
with rising mist

I see a man
walking his old, old dog
(its body is black
but its face as white
as snow)

as I pass
they walk and walk
in the autumn-chill
of another new day
against a backdrop
of brilliant red-orange-gold
and moody sky

the dog’s amber eyes gleam
as it it chugs along
despite weary bones

somehow
this continuity
this reliability
this faithfulness
every morning
is a tonic
to my soul

a shot of goodness
an understanding
that in the far, quiet reaches
something is right
so right
with the world

Cornfield Man. h.koppdelaneyCC BY-ND 2.0.

Treasured moments

If I could
make time stand still
I would have made
this one bright day
last for years
just me and you
bathed in brilliant
sharp-edged
autumn light
your beautiful pensive
baby face
considering
fallen willow-oak leaves
stretching beneath us
like a russet rug
as you swing
in and out
of my shadow

you cannot know
(not now, anyway)
how I treasure
these moments
this day
and you

but one day you will

oh, if I could make
time stand still

Autumn glory

This morning
was glorious

the strange autumn slant of light
catching the red-gold-orange flames
of trees, reaching their limbs
up to a brooding gray sky
meeting still-green fields
at the horizon

such a study in color
that I, mere mortal observer,
lost myself in the awe
of indescribable beauty

I could have lived
a thousand years
and not lost my breath
as I did this morning

marveling
wondering
at how such a beautiful world
can be so broken

Autumn Landscape. blmiers2CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Mouse

My first thought, on opening the garage door:
Oh, look, a toad, jumping from the step…
Until I discerned that this gray smudge of a creature
Scurrying to hide behind my boots was furry and
Evading me like the plague…

Mouse. Rob Powell. CC BY-SA

Mice are better leapers than frogs. Just sayin’.

In our shared autumn

with thanks to Denise Hill for the prompt on Ethical ELA’s Open Write today: American Sentences, a poetry form invented by Allen Ginsberg, are comprised of seventeen syllables.

To my husband.

An Observation, While Watching Oblique Light Striking Fiery Leaves

What shall I say to you, in the long afternoon of our shared autumn?
Memories of many colors scuttle across sidewalk existence.
I cannot decide which I would gather to preserve, to toss, to burn.
Trees have no compunction about shedding their fragility—should we? 
Give me your hand while it is yet light, for evening comes earlier now.
Moments, in their gilded crowns, are more beautiful than ever before.