This Morning

This morning the Sun rises over layers
Of glorious hills.
Green with dabs of barn red,
Sawdust and tangerine,
Colors just beginning.
Tang of Life in the air.
There is a hawk circling over the pines,
Calling eerily, voicing change.
Miniature yellow butterflies cluster the asters,
Hover like freckles
On the golden face of the field.
And the browning fingers of ivy crawl,
Wrapping ledges with it's faded garland.
They have repaved the road,
A winding blacksnake,
Coiled along the valley,
Dozing beside the river stones
Softened by yet another season
Of water, sand and tumble.
Damp fog melting like sugar
Onto greedy, childish tongues of light.
Lapping it faster and faster
As the sun moves above the highest branches.
Here is where I am.
Let the windy, dried grasses tickle my knees,
And the almost unfamiliar whiff of chimney smoke
Twist though the trees.
To belong.
Knowing that this place owns me.
What a rush of contentment and rebellion.
A squeezing of my heart as my eyes grow wet
For no reason.
Cyclones of early fallen, crinkly leaves
Skitter restlessly as a car passes,
Settle once more, into the calm.
Into my very soul.








This is old. Years and years OLD. So old that I realized the road needs to be paved again... But it reminded me of today. Welcome to summer's end. Sad. Nice. Always feels like a sort of bittersweet limbo around here.