Ember

I gaze to the paling rosy sky

And hear the rustle of the drying leaves,

The calls of the downy woodpeckers,

The joining together of the bird guilds.

I delight in the song of the pine warbler

And the chirp of the crickets

Both calling Fall to spread herself

Upon the land

In hues of golds, red, and orange.

I listen for the last of the cicada song

Fading fast

On the branches of trees

Just beginning to release their leaves.

I wait for the morning glories to open

Right with daybreak.

I watch them close

Their job well done at sunset.

I live for the light.

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Edge

During these days

The dog days

Of humidity,

Of August,

Of Summer

I stand outside and hear the

Crickets.

Occasionally the cicadas still sing

But thick air

Suffocates

Everything but the

Crickets.

Summers close

Autumns wake

Leaves yellow and scorch

Under the heat of the summer sun.

It takes effort to breathe.

It is no wonder

The birds

the leave the singing

To the

Crickets. 

Sky

Not every note I write can be a masterpiece

Not every word I feel

Can be spoken

Not everything makes sense all the time

And not everything can be understood eventually...

Not every wound can be healed

and not every joy remembered

But every day can be lived

And every day be experienced

When faith in the present moment

Is held in your heart.