Lesser orb of the night, guide of seasons and counter of days. Orange giver of shimmering light, mysterious body that comes then fades away. In season you mark the harvest, giving the time to bring the bounty in. Wheat, Corn and Pumpkins are brought in from the fields, as the chill of fall sets in. Hay rides and Bond fires become a normal scene. Lovers walk under your light as they think of comfort and warmth in each others arms. In your own way, you stand watching the mysteries of life and love, as summer ends and fall  begins, marked by the harvest moon.

Walking in the cold rain
Alone and
Going nowhere
Just hiding tears in raindrops

Always dreaming of being lost
Lost and then
The endless fall
Then the gasping awakening

But always the rain will end
And sunrise
Put an end
To the cruelty of night

And life will begin in warmth
And hope
Blossoms
Into the sweetest softest petals

                                           By Phil Roberts

If trees be poems by the earth
In avid joy I read each one
Florets writ in fragrant verse
Inked with beams of the morning sun
In shade, a fruit, a whiff of air
I rest beneath wide branches spread
A cavort of emerald canopy
Bestows comfort upon my breath
I lean against the bark, recline
And think of how it stands in time

Through tunneled years it's stoic trunk
Stands proud against frost and rain
Drops it's leaves to nakedness
Till spring dresses in green again  
On but an arm, the  koel sings
'Tis home to birds that weave a nest
Haven to sojourners ache
Clasp around, hold close to breast
I trace the names of love engraved
Now forgot; asleep in graves

On felled bark my soul I pen
On papyrus the past I feel
The murmured songs of sentiments
In susurrus as branches kneel.
Nymphs would hide or fairies entreat
With fireflies in silver light
Creatures tip toe on their feet
Lithe, in the darkness of the night
In engraved lines meaning I see
What better song, what poetree?



Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky -  Gibran

Fall sunshine
Silver spider yarns in flight
Pirouetting Maple exaltations ,
fledgling Bluebirds , not a cloud
in sight , Mister Mockingbird call
the roll of Fall with all your might
The butterfly dancers , the honeybee
determined , the Woodpecker drum
major , the violinist , cellos , the piccolos ,
the sagebrush pianist

We talk about roots
And I have some concept
Spent my summer
Digging up plants
And moving them
To other places.

I was the self-proclaimed
Smiling Creator

But my heart
Is at home
In the hills

I can breathe here
And it has always
Been so

Limestone
Is in my bones

The sound the hawk makes
Is my blues

I hold your life inside my own
as you hold me
in your sea of seeds and waving reeds
Beach grass on breast of sand

Ripples of wind
Across my dune
drifts...
your hand

Tracing the mark of a high tide
with my wanderings
Will I be the last?
to recall its highest reach upon the land?
I note the smell of dead and ebb
Would change it all on my return
if it were up to me

And once I started running out
“Wait! O, Wait!”

Black breaks
The sand bars
between the tide pool’s
red whispers of you

I now believe
gulls turn time in their wings