What Was Told
(after Rumi)

to the cornflower sky as clouds scribbled by?
What was told to the bluebird as it tousled
feathers in a lazy puddle? Does the perfume
in a hawthorn stem sing to a green spring day?
Does the oak swaying toward the maple whisper
a welcome, a husky how are you today?
What was told to the twilight as the firefly sparked
or to the cosmos as a bee kissed its silky center?
What was told the morning you were born,
after the pain and the sweat and the tears –
that my heart could shatter and still be made whole.

Waiting for Winter

In these last days of root and branch,
of storms that stain maple and sassafras
with sunset and flame that summon the night –
seeds fall, nuzzle into mud, hearts pulsing
in darkness as the Blood Moon rises.
Butterflies frisk across chrysanthemums and asters,
honeyed dreams tempted and tasted.
Sunflowers crown browning fields,
hyssop peeking through thinning thickets.
Gold and purple sing visions of summer,
waning warmth humming with the wind.
Midnight lingers with a hush
as autumn tiptoes close, closer.