QUILTED POEM STITCHED FROM CUT LINES
In heaven it is always autumn. John DonneThere’s that click in the wheel as the sun sets
a minute or two earlier, the calendar pages
turning like the leaves, falling into their true
colors. In this, my 79th year, I already know
the end of the story
******
Three years ago, after you died, I sat in the garden:
deep purple asters, goldenrod, dusty pink mums.
butterflies with their stained-glass wings about
to depart for Mexico. I wanted to drink this light
of mead and amber. I’m waiting to join you
in the sweet bye and bye.
******
Goldenrod scribbles thin notes in the meadow,
kissed by late bees. The chip chip of finches
tinctures the air. The sun tips its burden of light,
spills it all over the yard. Off in the distance:
the dry castanets of wind in the trees.
~Barbara Crooker
