Harvest time

I love the sound of the rain on the dry cornstalks, or the wind rustling through them.

A new poem of mine - September Evening

O hushed September evening while

the sea gulls over the cornrows sail

make the night's dark and deepening hours

regale us with all the stars can show.

Unveil one light in a periwinkle sky:

one high above the mountain peak,

one lower down near the airplane's streak.

Lure us into your pleated charms,

near the lake's edge by dry rush beds,

guide us to a soft repose.

A flitting eyelid is all

between your promise of dreams

of a moon-enthroned god and a red

pulsing beacon of Reason's flight.

And into the night of your silent song,

bring us one upon one to throng to the beating

of moth wings and the long slow wail

of the train on the track and the wind's growing gale.

If not for the ache of human remiss amid concrete walls

and financial abyss,

if not for the chains of civilized shame, then for the love of hope's regain,

lead us but slow to walk beneath the navy blue wealth of space

punctured with light years away constance, and prophecy,

a gaggle of swirling flames

that dance in the length of Cronos' beard and promise us hope's regain.