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. ~