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Autumn Rose

There’s still a flower that tends to whisper
A fragrant sweet and soft goodbye,
Only for those close enough to give
The fathoms deep, rows to reap,
Nose of longing citrus fruit,
With ties to ancient clay and root…

For those that dare to stop and smell,
And close their eyes and dare to tell,
“Dear heart come with me,
Let me show you how I see,
Stand here still, and better yet
Plant your feet and take a bow,

Close upon this blossom bounty
Bound but once, and now all free.
Take it in. Slowly, purely.
Take it in. Wholly, only.
Take it in. Now, be.”

And nothing but faint memories
Seem to wash upon the shores of mind:
Abuelita tends the roses
And fills the water for the birds.
Crystal rainbows table tops
Crochet patterns rosary beads.

And once again sweetness fills…
“Another breath, my dear, please!
In so sweet a world, a rhyme,
Wash away another time!”
Although smiling eyes and laughs do linger,
My mortal feet feel the dirt once again.

So I relive the days gone by
Basking in my memory.
And beneath the dirt where roots grow,
Between the throes of sweat and dew,
Where winter’s winds begin to blow,
The gift becomes an Autumn Rose.

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Swallows on a Sunday Afternoon

I found this in an old book of mine.
I had written it one morning while in DC .


The swallows overtake the sky
Like bees out of the hive,
flying this way and that
among puff-white mine fields
that hang quietly in the blue,
they swoop and flutter like fighter pilots
on a friendly flying mission.

“I wonder if somebody died,” I say aloud
as I watch a yellow monarch flutter past my window.
The two emergency vehicles were cause enough for concern.
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” I think to myself,
“that somebody dies on a clear and sunny Sunday afternoon.”