the best of me
comes late some days
apples
berries
blackbirds
the night hangs wet
against my windowpane

leaves are falling
hear their sighs
of spring
denying winter
would come –
and yet he does
to love again

judge me well
though who can tell
what secrets
I’ve been keeping
some would swear
to stories
never heard

but keeping here
far more than lines
more than
winds to weary
names and faces
graces
undeserved

save the light
still the might
of those who have no
sorrow
those who know
of every trust
by name

somewhere now
a gale of birds
wings beyond
the keeping –
angels every one
where I remain

. . .