Aubade: Night into Morning

We lie under high arched windows
awake in the deep winter night
and gaze on the tallest trees
glazed in silver light.


They reach up to the radiant moon,
their fingers spread bare and plain,
raised in silent prayer 
after December's cold, hard rain.


Your face is bathed in these holy rays,
and I fight sleep; I cannot turn away
from truth so deep as the moon beaming 
through our wintering trees ardently streaming.


But I close my eyes for a moment, then see
dawn drawing azure from night's darkest seed,
and the trees' golden limbs rising on high
to praise morning's vaulting blue sky. 


So I arise and turning to you I see
how night flows to dawn eternally
and to the resurgent world restores
the spring of our never-ending joy.

Raking Leaves

Look to the tallest tree
and see how the noon-day sun
glints through slender grey limbs
to where leafless Life contracts
to its tender core
(this year’s ring
complete)
and waits for winter’s storms.

Leaves lie,
golden harvest, luxuriant carpet
to kick and scatter like
brittle snow. . .
. . . years ago

playing through the autumn day long,
we built castles and smashing them,
dove deep into fragrant mounds.

Incense of burn piles
sanctified the chilled air of November.

Today I just rake,
scraping turf
making smaller heaps to haul
into my big green recycle bin

and see how golden autumn light
softly glows in gleaming grass,
free at last
from the detritus
of summer.

Night Plows

lights glare, clouds rise, flare

in the night, blades split earth, fur-

rows before the storm.

November Wind

cold wind

tears at my hair

thin wisps,

fine threads

make me 

blind

as towards bright 

rooms I run

through silver sleet 

piercing my core, 

I pass

through winter's 

icy door.

Two Poem Morning

Creation had been given to man as a clean window through which the light of God could shine into men’s souls. Thomas Merton

Holy Spirit


I lift heavy legs and groping for glasses,
stumble through my dark house
to see if night will return the sky.

Aching for the new day
I sip strong coffee
and write.

Listen! Birdsong rings
from dark trees.

Wise winter birds
know that the world
begins
and ends
with song.

With the rush of wings
they teach me,
how to capture the infant sun!

They show me
how, with trill and vibrato,
to end the dreary night.

They use breath and light
to rise to heaven,
and renew with love
the face
of the earth.

Aubade: Morning Rain

Living trees, grass rising from dark cool soil Roses, like blood from a wound rise above a common weed. Its fugitive life persists evading my brutal hands. November rains provoke darker green Dim clouds pour solemn waterfalls Holy tears renew the life of our dark world.