Purity

I.

Where light meets shadow,
and the quivering day turns to dusk,
the threads of a thistle, bound with the field,
and thrush guarding nests with eggs, speckled blue—

The time canters on, a horse in the distance,
galloping strong on its course;
the night sky fills its bridle with stars,
each shining with beauty’s light.

II.

Signaling the moments of rest and solitude,
you work and play
like a young suitor, courting the day;
each sail riveting the shore,
the bay, a lonely bachelor, stalwart at duty,
in and out they glide,
changing course with the wind,
interspersing the blue with white.

III.

The garden grows with reserve,
peopling the beds with carrots and beans,
the stalks weathering the vegetables,
the water hose, a welcome intrusion.

The corn grows heavy in its sheaths,
the sweet pea climbing the lattice,
the tomatoes ripen and rouge,
the formidable geraniums
decorate the front porch.

IV.

The life road goes on in disbelief
at journey without a playmate,
the time for meals and
prayers in marked solitude;
and tempered squares
of patchwork sewn
now age without contempt.

With truth emblazoned on my belt,
and salvation as my helmet,
with faith my shield, and peace my shoes,
I shall go on, with matched prayer,
and on and on.

V.

The dead have no solace—
in the place of the dead they rest;
the eternal torment of the damned,
an unvying sword of pity.

The burning of deeds left undone,
the smoke of the evil in God’s favor,
the decrepit loss of home and love,
indifference at the cherished humankind.

VI.

I have mustered the courage
to follow the miles,
walking into the distance
beneath the noonday sun.

Capturing the marshes
through my softened lens,
captivating the clouds,
wandering lonely...

Over the fields we go.

VII.

The autumn shed its cloak,
covering the ground with an earthy blanket
of browns and oranges,
under the trees, stark against the bare wind,
reposed against the sky.

And the children played in the leaves,
relishing the dance of time and passing,
friends of the sky and parting birds,
talking in whispered voices.

VIII.

Winter came and yielded its white breath,
the mountainside was shrouded in frost,
and the birds perched on the snowy feeder
in profusion.

The berries were red, the blossoms had disappeared,
the fine etching of chalk and charcoal
enamored the snowflake-filled sky
at evening’s end.