Lyric poet. Blogger. Grower. Maker. I love living things.💗POM-poet💗

January 1, 2021, a sonnet

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Photo by Marly van Putten on Unsplash

To all who are dead, to all who are yet to be born,
This day the world turned, moon has set with the year
And sun rose up on tomorrow; tomorrow is here.
This day is our gift from the gods, the gift of the morn.

Listen, ye friends from afar in the annals of earth,
We’ve seen the good and the evil and known it was we;
The reckoning falls to the just, to choose and to be,
To bring the earth through her moments of death and rebirth.

Ourselves the makers of day, the menders of night,
Ourselves to remember our wrongs and make a new path,
Ourselves to remember our dead and what they have vowed,
Ourselves to give children tomorrow, and, lo, it is bright.
Fear not the sluggards, the feckless; fear not their wrath;
The gods have granted a morrow; tomorrow is now. …


night-song

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Photo by Noah Silliman on Unsplash

Wake when the moon gleams
And the spirits of trees
Dance in the night with the wind.
Dance with the night.
Bow with the breeze and laugh
With the upturned nose of the fox,
Barking her joy as the fingers
Of night caress her soft fur.
Dance with the night.
Watch with the vole that patters
Out in the darkness to fetch
The fallen crumbles of day
To feast in the starlight.
Dance with the night.
Forget you are weary and sing
With the full-throated mockingbird’s joy,
Aloft in the treetops that shelter
His carol of wonder
From careless eyes while he sings.
Dance with the night.
Or sleep with the swallows and rest
On a pillow of dreams that wrap
Like a cupped hand around the soft feathers
Of tiny things breathing the stars.


a song of September wildflowers

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skipper on frost asters, photo 2019 © the author

There is white on the pasture where frost asters blow,
There’s a sparkle of silver with green grass below;
As September is waning, first warm and now chill,
There’s a glimmer like winter on top of the hill.

Still the sunshine is bright and it’s warm at midday,
Though at night the coyotes and owls are at play
While the breezes shift northward and moonlight moves south
And the trees are fast thinning from late summer’s drouth.

A slow tinting of yellow — September’s own gleam —
Lies across the bright fields and the trees, while they dream
Of the storms of midsummer, of winter’s pale cold,
While the sunflowers waken and blink in bright gold. …

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