Last Day Of Summer

Kicking acorns as they run,
three barefoot boys in the woods;
the dawn gilded with the sun,
stretching shadows like the hoods
of Fae watchers between trees,
the Autumn leaves laid beneath
and, through the glade, the cold breeze
whispers of late Summer’s grief,
yet the children laugh and play
without worries from the wind;
before them lay a long day
and they cannot see its end.
The Winter waits like a hawk,
its talons sharp with its frets,
gripping youths until they squawk
and men aching with regrets.
But rousing by slow degrees,
the Winter remains aloof
and a boy never quite sees,
observing too late the truth
when Winter’s beak pecks between
his ribs with keen hunger pangs,
its wings outspread, and the sheen
of icicled overhangs.
No more barefooted dog-days
when the raptor reigns supreme,
hunting boys in bitter days—
Summer but a distant dream.

Play

When still a young child you played with toys

to create stories when by yourself,

but then you grew up, (as do some boys)

and the toys went to a closet shelf,

yet you never really stopped playing,

trading the toys for words and knowledge

and images, too, each new plaything

a hobby horse to ride to college,

and ride beyond, for life can be bland

when you work so much each joyless week

and find magic only sleight of hand

as you move along a losing streak,

and so you play with words, as you may

the action figures amongst the dust,

trying to imbue each weary day

with the joys lost to old age and rust.

True Gold

How like children in full run
neath the ever-fixed sun,
and the daylight hours never done.

How like finches in the sky
twittering love’s lullaby
over the barley and the rye.

How like gold koi in the lake,
scales sparkling while wavelets wake
and eternity in their make.

How like the buck and the doe,
leaves above, lilies below,
frolicking wherever we go.

How like a husband and wife,
forever this lovely life,
never fearing Time’s reaping scythe.

When high or low, green or gold,
we are as children grown old
as the Summers of true love hold.

Should it end, this Summertime,
and chill to a colder clime,
yet would love glow gold on the rime.