Cinnamon spices

Embed from Getty Images

Cinnamon spices

Warm the autumn orchard air

From a window’s sill

As bell crickets swoon

Embed from Getty Images

As bell crickets swoon

Golden fields fall beneath scythes

And burn to heaven

This poem has been submitted to dVerse poets Ch-ch-changes (turn and face the strange)

Morning Fete

Before the world explores her day
and light defines the sill
The padding of a spring-fed rain
implore my eyes to peel

To sit and drape the stark night’s cape
bare, moonless; clothed in clouds
About my chest and naked breasts
To muse her muddled sounds

‘Til morning rays do draw my gaze
on perfect peaks desire
And up like wraiths her ghosts escape
to heaven they perspire

Now I alone – alone at last
find droplets rapt in fete
Her heavy sighs caress the mind
My soothing morning rain