An Autumn Morning

(C) R.L.K.

Last night's rain is a memory.
Now, only a few clouds pass,
white as empty pages.
The maples atop the hill
sway lightly in the wind
and, from somewhere, not far away,
comes the soft song of some small bird.

Somehow

(C) R.L.K.

It just happens: late in the day,
when leaf shadows tremble in half-light,
nostalgia comes out of nowhere
to carry you away. Slowly,
a lone cloud skims the treetops.
The low sun etches shadows on the sidewalks.

It just happens: the night descends,
and with the night, comes the thought
that there is always another shoebox full
of old photographs to sort through
while crickets chirp outside and you
grow older with every chirp.

Only Then

(C) R.L.K.

It is the moment you pause
for poetry, the moment you stop
beneath the fading moon,

the moment the wind sighs,
leaf shadows tremble in new light,
and morning mist hugs the hillside,

the moment to seize a rhyme,
sublime for a time, the moment that soars
like a sparrow twinkling its wings in daring flight.