Angelus bells on Wissahickon Creek as rocks and water ring
each other. Along the banks, fallen leaves nose
their crisp, curled prows into the stream, bearing away
the last cargos of light. In this mid-day of the season,
time hovers like an angel of annunciation, poised to confer
eternity and grace. In this mid-hour of the day, the world asks me
to stay and watch the shadows come, then grow long, to witness
everywhere diminishment: a slow fading and cold descent. Still,
there is no sadness in the trees, the sky is soaked with blue.
Even the water shoulders its chill winter shawl without complaint.
Amid all this gilded fluorescence — final flare before earth’s uncoupling
with light – a meadowlark still finds reason to sing.
Copyright 2002 by Deidra Greenleaf Allan
Posted by kind permission of the poet.
It’s ripe, the melon by our sink. Yellow, bee-bitten, soft, it perfumes the house too…
(at St. Mary’s) may the tide that is entering even now the lip of our…
I miss you, fellow walkers – dad with double stroller, rainbow legging woman, earnest black…
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