The stained glass window of the October leaves before the sky God’s Cathedral. The waves rush ashore leaving the sand a virgin for the next set of footprints The gulls screech the hymns of a million years
Thasia Anne
The noon sun hangs low in the southern sky,
Shafts barely skimming tops of ancient fir trees.
Their sideways glance invites quiet seeing,
Where slight movement spirals into ripples.
I pray to the Cardinals
The most reverent of the birds Their presence indicates
lost loved ones
with no words
They come in
at times of grief
This sense sustains the House of Memory.
A baby's smell relaxes me.
My nose feels near those prenatal “clouds
of glory” old poet Mr. Wordsworth worded worthily.
Clover’s odor covers lovers clinging close together.
Granite scree on mountain slopes
