home is a hard thing
to find
a soft place
to fall into
a dream
like a cloud in the sky
white on blue
where the sun shines through
to my heart
as it winds its way
over the landscape
of this sojourn
unwinds its strings
seventy times seven
moves on again
driven to a
home, a safe place
to land
a promise
of belonging
to give you a name
and a strength at your back
like the wind

The leaves turned to a deep maroon
and the breeze caught a chill
and the sky was stained with a faded grey
as the autumn came, on it's way

The air held a smoky smell
as the colorful leaves twirling, fell
and everything under the weary sun
skipped gaily for autumn fun

Summer has come to a close
The air is cool and dry,
The fields are golden
The leaves are turning red.
Fall has come.

Sheaves of grain stacked
In neat rows scatter the field.
Men, women and children
Harves the succulent wheat.
Fall has come.

Hearts gladden at the full harvest.
Birds fly south to warmer homes
Summer and its memories are gone,
Fall is here, with many to make.

“Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.” (Robert Frost, Nothing Gold Can Stay)

mist hangs suspended
bewitching, elusive
drifts over the soybean field
reaching up from the neighbor’s lake
reaching, rising
a breath from a soul

the moon is a mirror
a sliver less than full
a mirror of your inside
warmth, wildness, wonder
and room to grow

I’m sitting outside in our driveway on an old beach chair while my four-year-old brother plays in his turtle sandbox. The sun is warm, but the air is decidedly March-like—crisp and cold; the chilly kind, that gets inside you—and I’m sitting here with a hood over my head wondering what on earth I’m doing out here and how Joseph can bear having nothing on his feet.

I sit here watching the brilliant white sheets dance in the wind, illumined by the warm sun until their whiteness blinds you.

Behind them only the bare brown and grey of the early April woods.
Beneath them the grass, still suppressed by Winter's chill, a faint dead green at best.
But I hear the sound of geese, coming home.