Softly, gladly through this one night’s grace
I am gone, to the moments returned
when eloquence embraced wordlessness
in the leaf whisper fathering of one more loss
and thrush nest warmth already contained
the first frail feather thought of autumn,
this hushed moon and memory ghosted time.
This slow season of falling and fading,
of ripeness, decay and remembrance
amid the mists of a year’s conscience,
I walk again the mossed ways of loving:
softly, gladly through this one night’s grace,
this hushed moon and memory ghosted time.
