From out of the darkness
golden petals burst forth,
fiery-rayed blossoms
that sing of the power
of the sun. Blazing life,
brimming with joy,
dancing to the song
of the ever-revealing
Yes.

A seed here, a breeze there,
some sun, some rain,
the tilt of a tiny blue planet
as it races around its star.
Who would think mere happenstance
could produce this harmony, this beauty!
Yet here it is, before our eyes:
Balance, a grace of design,
an artful juxtaposition
of varied hues and forms.
Nothing is out of place. Nothing’s missing.
Explain it as you will; the beauty remains
and surpasses all the theories.
The heart understands things
that words can never tell.

Here’s where the deer lie,
sheltered by sycamores,
cooled by the green leaves
of tall, wild sunflowers,
the sun filtering down
to kiss their pelts with warmth.
This is the place they dream of
in winter, the place they sing of
in lullabies to newborn fawns
in early spring as they lick
their soft hair and promise
them tomorrows filled
with flowers and sunshine.

The creek is still today,
its transparent surface mirroring
the lush growth along its banks,
capturing the clouds and the sky
as if to reflect back to them
their beauty. I stand in late summer’s
tall green peering into the creek’s
shadowed water, lucky enough to spot
brown fishes lazing among the rocks.
Some scenes are almost too perfect
to bear. And to stand in their midst,
tasting the fragrances, the breathing
of it washing against my skin,
is to feel honored somehow,
and blessed to be alive, here, beside
a still creek that mirrors the sky.

An unfamiliar quiet hangs over the lake today,
a kind of waiting for the high-pitched shouts
and laughter that danced over its waves
on every sunny day since June.
The children are gone, carried
from their homes just after sunrise
in bright yellow buses to the county’s schools.
The kids, I imagine, were filled with excitement,
glad for something new at last,
for reunion with old friends,
for moving once again toward grown-up.
But here at the lake, it’s awfully quiet.
I walk its shores and whisper to its waves,
“I know. I know.”

You never know when you set out
what your journey will bring.
Anything you can imagine
is possible, and then some.
It’s all a gift, you know,
a chance for you to explore
your choices, to decide who
you will be, to discover what
you’re made of. Hold on to your hat.
Hold on to your dreams. This gift’s
an adventure, you know.
Keep faith,and always remember
that everything passes, and light
always shines at the end of the road.

Acres of golden sunflowers,
more than you could count in a day,
nodded in the afternoon sun,
each head, heavy with seeds, bowed
as if in gratitude for the joy
of such productive lives.
Overhead, in a deep blue sky, floated
a single cloud, looking like an angel
with outspread gauzy wings, come to bless them.
And a warm breeze, as light as feathers,
wafted across the broad field,
whispering its quiet amen.

In days of sunshine and those
of trial, whether by happenstance
or choice, life sends us the gift
of companions for our journey,
spirits to walk beside us, to share
our laughter and our tears,
our stories and our silences.
Some stay only for moments.
Some come, then go, then reappear.
Some walk beside us for long miles,
for lifetimes, and maybe more.
Love, after all, never dies.
And it is love that sends them,
these companions, that each of us
may know that we are truly
never alone.

I fell asleep last night
with a parade of flowers
ribboning through my mind—
the spring’s first crocuses
at its start, the tulips, the lilacs
the irises, peonies, and roses.
When I woke, I sighed, sad
that the parade would soon
be at its end. But then the day
brought mums, a little love note
smiling at me from the grocer’s door,
as if to reassure me the dance
isn’t over quite yet.

So subtly August turns us from summer to fall,
sliding the sun from its zenith, inching
the pool of night onto closer shores
almost without notice, as if it were a dream.

There on the hill, the first blush of crimson
creeps onto the maple leaves. The young geese
grow restless as their first migration nears.

The tillers of the land start the rituals of harvest.
Fragrances we haven’t known for a year drift
from kitchen doorways, smelling like home.

And we who dreamed summer would stretch on
find that it’s changed now, its green losing its sheen.
Oh, so subtly August turns us. So deftly she ushers us on.