The oak will give up
its dying limbs and it’s heavy fruit come loose
in the soughing that lulls us all.
No, it is not quite the ocean
nor the lapping of the bay
but it is at least all of the same piece
even if we cannot sail upon it or swim within it.
There is a comfort in the ebb and flow of wind,
of bright eyed vireos and a small green spider
the snarl of bittersweet and the spotted fawn
even the play of shadows and light and
the tide of rising evensong
that surely we will miss when
the cold fingers down from the north
and stills even the rustlings.
Everything seems possible in lengthening days
but when the light shifts
and the monarchs sear the eye,
much of that takes wing.