The Last Sunday Morning of Summer

Silent
but for the sound of my own breath
and a few cars on the highway--
the breezy light gently creeps
to the edge of my bed
and whispers me awake.

I am almost able
to hear the leaves releasing
their hold on the end
of branches
as cold comes
and makes that grip
impossible

save the stubborn oak
who presses his lips together
and turns his face away,
resisting the ease
of so much joy.

For him
freedom will come
in the dark of December
and with the tumble
of ice and snow.

But today I watch
the color of the sun
escape into reds and gold
tripping drunk
after a long night
of forgetting.

I will ready myself
for the communion
of Saints
and the raising of voices
to the universe in praise
of this soft leaving.

The new way
eventually surrenders
to the low moan, the humming
of long notes
at the end of the spirit
so much like gospel
and blue grass
we move our feet
in a gentle waltz,

aching to be held
in the arms
of a distant lover
before kissing goodnight.

These blessings are worth keeping
in well lit places,
or between the pages
of the hymnal,
so we don't forget
we have them.