Autumn’s chill caressed the Wood,
And coaxed her into Sleep.

Leaves then fluttered from the Boughs
Into a towering heap.

Man admires the Wild-flower,
Gem-like on the ground;

But what of the slumbering Tree
That cannot make a sound?

Are not all things in this Wood
Reflecting how, in Life,

Living things can’t set their roots
Without enduring strife?

Can’t Life be admired
Without silken cloaks of red?

Don’t trees possess beauty
In their bones once Leaves are shed?

Nature peeled back Summer’s quilt
Of flower-beds and all things green.
Soon the plants began to wilt;
Windows took a frosty sheen.

In place of grass, the lawn turned pale
Beneath a sheet of fresh, white snow.
The pond became a crystal frail;
Frigid water lurked below.

Picture now that Mother fair,
Deciding that our land should sleep.
She tossed her Snow into the air,
Shrouding hills in blankets deep.

There is a sacred hollow
Where the fireflies in play,
Can inspire a shattered heart
With hope for a new day.

Wind creeps between the branches
Of the trees stronger than time.
After rain, the ground sends up
A scent rich and sublime.

We venture there in daydreams
To escape the winter gray.
In the shelter of the trees
We all would like to stay.

Find me in the dead of night,
Curled up in my bed but Wading
Through the murky dregs of Sleep,
Gathered in a pool so deep.

Consciousness is breached.
The thing intangible that holds me,
And in waking hours consoles me,
Just out of my reach.

One bright afternoon, you see
Some wild birds in play.
If you remain silent,
You can make out what they say.

Sit here in the sunlight,
One bird says to her friend.
Because in a few short weeks,
This fair weather will end.

Soon comes hibernation,
The ritual of sleep.
As for you and me, there is
The southward trip we keep.

Winter frost will slither in
And this land will be dead.
So sit here and enjoy the sun
While leaves are overhead.

I feel that we’ve found a place
Where shadows are of light.
It’s the first time
I have not been frightened of the night.

Crickets on their leaves are singing
To the moon above.
Fireflies blink in and out
And watch the stars with love.

Weeping willow is a maiden
Crowned with silver hair.
She begins to sway in rhythm
To the chilly air.

I will stretch out on the grass
And smile myself to sleep.
We have found Elysian Fields
Where shadows cannot creep.

Crickets have a preference for
The bush outside my door.
They’ve gathered there to make a song
I’ve never heard before.

If the stars had voices,
I would think they’d sound the same—
All abuzz with energy,
A summer night untame.

Wait! here come the fireflies.
And look at how they dance!
Choreographed perfectly,
A fairytale romance.

Now the breeze is picking up,
As if to harmonize.
It purifies the tune and sends it,
Perfect, to the skies.

If you go to sleep tonight,
You’ll miss the cricket-chants.
They only come this time of year.
Go outside and dance.

Lower your voice in the garden.
Flowers have songs for the wise.
Sometimes you can hear them sing
To serenade the skies.

Lower your voice here, and listen.
This awareness will not hurt.
Here, the air is clean and you
Skip barefoot on the dirt.

One day, you’ll wish you had listened
When the Meadow tried to speak.
Life continues through the pause.
It doesn’t make you weak.

Lower your voice in the garden:
There’s more to life than the pain.
Hold your breath and take a step
And wait for it to rain.

Have you felt the chill of fall?
It’s come this way before.
See! it gathers over hills.
September comes once more.

Cooler mornings changing shifts
With eighty-degree days,
‘Til there comes October-land,
And sweater weather stays.

Nimble flowers bow their heads
And trees turn shades of gold.
Nothing lives that doesn’t rest:
This truth is sweet and old.

I feel the chill—my spirit stills
And seeks a warming hearth.
The golden hour has returned
To our part of the earth.

Meet me where the grass is fragrant
From the morning dew;
I have learned a melody
And want to sing to you.

It can’t be another place.
My voice won’t rise so high.
I won’t cater to a crowd;
I daren’t even try.

If you cannot meet me there,
The tune will slip away.
It will choose a stranger
Someplace else, another day.

A whistler claims the springtime air.
His rhythm stirs the water fair,
And swans, in envy, fly away,
Resigned to cry another day.

The whistler has no thing to mourn,
Unlike pedestrians forlorn.
For meadows come from storms of rain—
Small price for color we shall gain!

Dear whistler, never slow your tune.
Let it last through the afternoon,
And—if you please—into the night.
Your cheery song will set things right.

I collect forgotten things:
Dusty books and memories,
Fallen leaves from slumbering trees,
Music no one else still sings.

I wear a coat of happy dust,
Reveling in the Ancient smell.
How could I refuse to tell
These tales old? I must.