Your World Where the Maples Turn

The world abounding us is perfect and

of full plenty.

Intrepid Sol heats the wood glens

and weaves its liquid day

through the forested fall canopy,

One with Autumn's colored face.

The ancient path with tumbled wall

of moss touched rock and broken branch

Carries us, in these living depths

of smells and sounds

and covened grouse

with appled feast from orchard old

Where time blends and bends

the thread like lines of man.

Source Mother, I am nothing:

only but joy for Your presence and

thanksgiving in the pocket

of Your bounty's cloak.

(23 September ’79)