End of November Poems

I lie on the quiet bank
where the river laps the sand.
Within my view, rapids
rush their sound over rocks.
I, too, can be quick,
but I do not choose to hurry,
nor to sing at diva volume.
What moves in me is mute
as the eagle gliding above;
what hums, deeper than language.
Maple leaves descend
and sail downriver.
To be alive in Autumn,
one must hush.

Senior Housing

Fifty of us in a building
where the setting sun lays golden rays
upon the mountains out our windows,
I live in the midst of ancient ones
waiting out our days in grace or battle.
I mean to leave but I stay.
Seasons pass, I come to dusk.
As swift come shadows on the mountains,
swiftly end our little journeys.
Against the still-lit sky,
darkened mountain shapes approach me close,
and call my name.

Like Bright Coins

From my chair afloat
in a sea of fallen maple leaves,
I gaze up at the oak still gripping hers.
Brushing the sky with burnished contour,
she dazes me. At the setting sun she waves
her glistening, golden tinsel.
The autumn day opens its purse
and late light ingots pour
over my lap like the brightest of coins.
I know now, not to clutch,
but to allow the bounty
to brim, to spill,
under a dome of sailing clouds
that closes out the shortened day.