Night falls. . .

cricket calls. . .

blue darkness
comes to
drape behind
the black-appearing oak’s
thick to spindly finger
spun from its trunk
so sturdy broad
and tall.

Eyes raise
to gaze
at a slow ascending,
brilliant glowing disc
growing nightly larger,
blown by fall
like a balloon inflating–
slowly, surely–
a shape
so round and bright,
where once, it was a whisp,
but now plumps
proud and full–
a perfect ball. . .

Mind blows. . .

mouth gapes–
such a wonder
into coming winter
to marvel at
and contemplate. . .

until time comes
when perhaps it gets too late
upon maven
of our nearest heaven
even one jot further
on to fixate–
eyes ope
and self, awake. . .

For then,
will come the hour
off to bed and sleep
to go,
and to pray the Lord,
through that blind and silent
witching time,
the soul to keep–
or else,
in love and confidence
to take.

This entry was posted in Autumn, Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry, Prayer, Winter and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s