Lavender linaria spikes upward,
miniature clouds stalk-perched
     as they reach for the sky.
Hummingbirds crowd-feed
     in the waning afternoon sun.
Carnations, red as a fresh-cut
     thumb, wave divine perfume from
     ruffled taffeta on gray-green stems.
Sweet peas' pungent surprise,
     a salmon/marshmallow palette, celestial
     bouquet a fragrance of that 
     far away gate in the Heavenlies.
Juncos chip-clacking in rhythm, 
     sure-footed clutching on feeders afloat,
     trapezing in the breeze.
Leaves, light-transfigured day
     lanterns lingering against
     a cornflower sky.
Voices ferried on the wind,
     gleeful hollers loud as a
     clap of thunder, neighborhood 
     jazz accompaniment
     to this quieting afternoon.
Let the record show, no pockets
     or wallets were emptied in
     exchange for these riches, no
     bank account tapped, no debt
     incurred to pay for this view.
The ledger will detail only this:
     "Full stop, eyes open,
     breathing slowed."
No currency recorded, just a
     bookkeeper's note in a lazy
"Two slowing feet, arrested gaze
     earful of sound."
The books are balanced and so
is my soul.

Silence Ascends, Sunday

There's a lot one can say

     about the power of being 
     quiet (yes, I see the irony).
When listening forefronts the mind
     other senses muscle their 
     way into place (the ears above
     all) take in the not-words
     simply song, hum and tone
     in counterpoint.
No addition necessary; I am
     mute, yet the Word bursts
     alive, verse and chorus rise
     without me. The truth
     needs no help to stand.
Even when I'm not singing
     even if I'm not yes-ing it.
Sometimes you don't get an amen.