Peace of Writing In the Night
Sunday eventide on the slope of the
fire-hued mountain,
owls take flight from the pine boughs,
I'm sitting by an open window,
peace of writing in the night.
Hunter's moon, so settled on the ridge
and brightly goldenrod,
the young days of autumn's presence,
sipping cinnamon hot cider,
baying hounds in the smoky valley,
songbird's evening vow of silence.
Penning of bygone friendships,
and gained faith in Christ.
Harvest of bittersweet recollections,
surviving parent,
of thirty-one years since I last
saw my mother,
of loving words not spoken.
Wishing to have been missed.
A childhood image so mellow,
of leaping as a six year old with
cold-reddened cheeks into a tall
mound of blushed leaves,
parting my lips to a smile-
peace of writing in the night. ~
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