End of Summer
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Now the Goldenrods are losing luster
bending with days, and dust, cooler evenings
down the dry backroads.
As they have for centuries, farmers
burn the timeless fields—the year’s sweetness
of smoldering stubble—drifts away
with wreaths of smoke.
The wide old river runs low this time of year
mostly silent now, sliding quietly down
its ancient wash of stones.
Scribbled black calligraphies of crows
hearken into the sunset blush.
Harsh cries fade with distances, and dusk.
Summer’s last fireflies are twinkling little fires.
Memory tries to kindle, keep what it can—some light
or scent from all that’s gone from us, like smoke.
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–Quilla
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“All men are like grass, and all their glory is like the flowers of the field;
the grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of the LORD stands forever.” –1 Peter 1: 24-25
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February seventh
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A Winter Psalm
What lyrics of wisdom, words of grace
grow the long limbs of the birch—
at first, reaching down toward earth,
at last, lifting emptiness toward sky!
How those ten thousand winter fingers
know, and wait: warm nights in April
to unfurl leafy curtains of lace!
You are pleased O LORD—their long waiting,
and with their letting go.
Such cryptic praise—the dark music of crows
like shards of charred pottery, taken wing.
The ragged calligraphy of their flight
scribbles across the silk of milky sky.
All our tattered phrases return to You.
O yes, where else can they go?
–we bring these rags of praises
back to you, O LORD!
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–Quilla
Ruach 333, by Quilla 