The stump of an oak grows a miniature forest,
a mountain with moss trees for insects to scale.
Witches pick their hats from the ground
in preparation for their ride on branch and pine needle brooms
across the Halloween moon.
The roses bow their heads
in respect to winter.
Like a lantern
the illuminated leaf
lights the forest journey.
Seeds of generosity
fly away on Santa’s whiskers
before the first snow falls.
Gourds wear their own tattoos.
This is the symbol for courage.
A slide of green velvet moss,
a plush pile carpet of leaves,
water carbonated with laughter –
this is the spot where the fairies play.
The Big Bang
in a blue bowl.
Gone are the purple petal skirts and crowns of gold
but your beauty and grace remain
and will be scattered by the wind.
In the solitude
you are not alone.
The trail is marked.
I rarely miss the sea.
The mountains are my ocean.
The laughter and song of the brook
are part of the mountain’s music.
This is the surface of sound.
A knot of limbs.
A web of leaves.
The forest is a tapestry.
The fireworks of fall
in all of its intensity and delicacy.
At the edge of a mountain of color
the Christmas trees wait for their season.
The flood waters ate away your soil,
but still you remain, standing tall;
your root ball defying gravity.
A singular leaf rides the river
carrying the history of this autumn
in its colors.
The first hard frost has taken all the leaves.
One brave bloom reaches for the sun.
Between the cold front
and the warmth of the tail end of summer
is the blue sky of memory making.
Sunlight and movement
transform the stream bed
into a kaleidoscope.
Color moves across the mountains
in a dazzling display of transitions
before the stark beauty of winter descends.
The landscape is a feast for the eyes and soul.
Nature’s fleeting beauty sweetens the days.
When an October morning is gentle enough for bare feet
and the dew is but a cool kiss…these are gifts of Indian Summer.
In a certain slant of light
one can see past what is there
and into the possibilities of what could be.
Sometimes a hollow is a home.
In a hard rain
the autumn colors blur
into an impressionistic painting.
She waits at the edge of the woods for Dudley, her dog friend.
Waiting to flash her tail to signal the start of their mountain romp.
But Dudley is not in the car as the doe seems to hope.
Dudley is in heaven now, running with the wind.