The Neighborhood Fire
The sun drops low behind the eaves
To strike the maple in the drive;
A furnace built of autumn leaves
That keeps the neighborhood alive.
Upstate New York
Suspended in the Blue
The bog holds no wind today.
Only the weight of sky fallen inward,
Where clouds drift upside down
Through five feet of peat and silence.
Amber on the Cedar
Pressed flat against the furrowed bark,
A golden frond outlives the green;
A lace of amber in the dark,
Where summer’s shadow once had been.
The Patient Sentinel
Among the drying pickerelweed,
Where amber shallows catch the sun,
He stands as still as river reed,
Until the careless minnows run.
