May 30, 2021

The Architect

Warmth hovers over

a leaf-laden path, like yeast

to the evening’s rise of insects,

as a thousand broken arches

reach forever upward

to clasp the sun’s last rays,

funneling light into a dusky

chapel without walls —

where no one sits or sleeps,

and all stand in all weathers;

where simple existence

silently shouts and sings

enthrallment with its creator.

Passing It On

Pinching dead petunias

from a hanging basket

brought home by my husband,

I am reminded of Mom

and long summer days by the pool, 

late suppers of tuna salad

and fresh fruit, and evenings

spent collecting blooms from the

rose bushes planted by Dad.

An armful of connective color —

pinks and reds, yellows and corals —

each in a different stage of fragrance

to be saved from marauding deer,

Mom showing me where to clip,

careful to leave the next bud

a place to blossom.