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.

Time Passing, Who Knows Why?

(C) R.L.K.

Yesterday there were sparrows
in the treetops and over them
a sky beyond blue. This morning
no birds sing and dark clouds
crowd the rooftops. Umbrella in hand,
you follow the old sidewalk, moving
slowly, weighted down with farewells.
Passing the park, you notice that the wind
is nudging the empty swings. The rain
falls like sadness on the grass
and you hear in the distance
another train bound bound for nowhere.

The Train I Ride

(C) R.L.K.

It wasn’t the first time I had stared out the window
of a train bound for the city,
while the wind whistled outside,
while the thin trees swayed,
and over the rain-soaked rooftops
a sad dawn was rising
like an old man who has lost touch with his friends,

but it was the first time in a long time
I remembered that day years ago
when we rode another train together
away from the city,
and the wind was still,
the trees were thick with white blossoms,
and the sunlight glinted off the window.

How Steadily Returning

(C) R.L.K.

There is something
about the rain tonight --
how it drops
into the funnels of the streetlamps,
how it sprays off the maples,
or burbles in the gutters,

and how it does all this
as if to welcome me
back to my hometown.
The rain makes it easy to remember
other nights, dreams dreamed
as only youth can dream them.

It all fits somehow,
the pale light, the shadowy trees,
the sounds of a summer night
like so many summer nights,
the old familiar things
reflected in a puddle of rain.

Summer Sequence

SUMMER SEQUENCE
(C) R.L.K.

Slow old train crossing a rusty bridge;
the night assumes the shape of rain.

....
Pale moon peeking through parting clouds;
Willows bow at the end of the road.

....
One thin dime in the beggar’s cup;
how many summers have come and gone?

....
Dusty boots left out on the porch;
the evening wind rustles the curtains.