The morns are meeker than they were,

The nuts are getting brown;

The berry’s cheek is plumper,

The rose is out of town.

The maple wears a gayer scarf,

The field a scarlet gown.

Lest I should be old-fashioned,

I’ll put a trinket on.

A single green leaf flutters in the breeze,

It is one of many on this sturdy maple tree.

The leaf is changing slowly,

Does it know it will soon be free?

The sunshine is warm and nourishing,

But the days are getting shorter it seems.

From green, to red, orange, and yellow,

The little boy wonders, do the leaves have dreams?

Its life cycle has been completed,

The leaf lazily falls to the earth below.

Its purpose to nourish the soil now,

Is all it needs to know.

Trusting in the process as scary as change can be,

This is the wisdom of the Fall, the story of a tree.

I step out into the darkness,

The light of the full moon sweeps across my backyard,

Creatures of the night begin to awaken,

And I am ready to become immersed in the magic of this night.

High-pitched clicks sound near my head,

I see a glimpse of small creatures, flying this way and that,

Backdropped against a black canvas peppered with distant sparkling stars.

I am thankful for the bats presence as I wave away another mosquito buzzing at my ear. 

Dark clouds begin to float in, seeming to swallow the stars and even the moon, 

Soon the darkness is absolute.

Yips and growls rise from the back of the cornfields, 

Disjointed howls soon meshing to become one united chorus,

I listen as their song slowly begins to fade, as they move deeper into the forests beyond.

Another sound reaches my ears, a sense now heightened due to the lack of sight.

High up in the spruce trees a whistling trill begins low, notes rising, then falling,

I recognize the call of an Eastern Screech Owl,

And now there are two.

What are they saying, I wonder?

I breathe in deeply; picking up scents of freshly cut fields, rain-soaked earth and undertones of decay, 

A sure sign of fall.

I quietly take my leave, not wishing to disturb the magic I experienced this night,

Whispering to the darkness,

Thank you.

The wind

is whispering

Softly in the marshgrass

Safely in my arms

My baby sleeps

Sleeps.

Sir Bullfrog

chugarumphing

in deep harmony

To Page Peeper

Safely in my arms

My baby sleeps

Sleeps.

The moon 

rising high

Sprays pale silver shining

On all the meadow folk below

While safely in my arms

My baby sleeps

Sleeps. ~JWD

* Excerpted from “Nature’s Quiet Conversations” by John A. Weeks

Watching a hawk

Soar in a thermal

I become him –

not flapping my wings

just leaning, turning, rising.

Up and up, above,

over, hover.

A dot lost

in the midday haze.

(From “The Poetry Friday Anthology for Middle School” (2013))

I’ll miss these hills

Which we trudged up

Sweating in summer heat

Or like pied pipers, leading

A line of weary children to lunch

Which we slid down in winter

On backs or bellies or butts

(Often regretting this later)

I’ll miss these hills

Which brought us all here

Together

At Blackwater Pond the tossed waters have settled 

after a night of rain. 

I dip my cupped hands. I drink 

a long time. It tastes 

like stone, leaves, fire. It falls cold 

into my body, waking the bones. I hear them 

deep inside me, whispering 

oh what is that beautiful thing 

that just happened?

Oh, if you’re a bird, be an early bird

And catch the worm for your breakfast plate. 

If you’re a bird, be an early bird-

But if you’re a worm, sleep late. 

How must it be 

to be moss, 

that slipcover of rocks?— 

imagine, 

greening in the dark, 

longing for north, 

the silence 

of birds gone south. 

How does moss do it, 

all day 

in a dank place 

and never a cough?— 

a wet dust 

where light fails, 

where the chisel 

cut the name.