It was fall when I fell for you
Gazing at hillsides of varied hue,
Red-headed girls in saffron dresses
Coming to give me hugs and kisses,
Moving in droves from outcrops and ridges
Crossing the valleys and brooks without bridges.

You of all were most fair,
Your hair
Piled like clouds at sunrise,
Passion and excitement fierce
Burnt in your gray-blue eyes,
Particles of light aglow
Surrounded you in a mist
That totally enveloped me
Every time we kissed.

Now, you tease me like a breeze
And hear what I don't say
I throw my troubles in your fire:
They're gone
And joy remains.

Sanderlings
Don't use their wings
When waves roll in on the strand:
They beat their retreat
On quick, little feet
Back across the
Sand.

Crickets that chirp all day and all night
Looking for love in their season
Overgrown fields rife with golden rod
The same as they are every year
Earlier sunsets we notice at mid-month
(Wonder where the summer went)
Cool mornings with fog
Still air with familiar scents
Bats from behind shutters
Pursue their flights at dusk
(If only we could fly with them)
Apples fall from trees, soft, little thuds,
Remind us of other late summers, and of gravity
Migrating birds eat honeysuckle berries
While a monarch spreads her wings
On white phlox

She comes from the grill
Wearing her blue, happy chef, skull cap
Raising, on palms outstretched,
Two plates stacked with pancakes
Steaming, round and golden,
To set them, dramatically, on "the line"
For one of the wait staff to pick up.
After that, she looks out at the people
And smiles for no obvious reason
With a smile that lights up the whole restaurant.
Then she goes back to the grill, grabs her spatula,
And pushes the home fires around...

Every Stan's a "Stan the man",
And every Eddie's a "Steady Eddie",
Every Hanna's a "Hanna banana",
And every Tammy's a "Tammy whammy".

I'm not sure where these names come from
Or why some people make rhymes with them--
It seems to be quite widely done,
Maybe that's because rhyming's fun.

He died on Friday
The cars keep rushing on by
Rest in peace my friend

in cool piney shade
on squat bushes spread
wild blueberries grow
on soft, mossy bed

or under the ferns
among meadowsweet
on berms in the sun
but sheltered from heat

or on a bush rising
almost to my waist
so loaded with berries
it bends down and sways

I'm picking them
plump and cool with the dew
in dappled sun under the pines
morning turns into afternoon
I'm losing all sense of time

cicadas' shrillness,
a chorus of crickets,
the red squirrel's noisy chatter,
a crow's voice somehow reminds me of spring,
but time just doesn't matter...