Tuesday, October 20, 2009


As night falls quiet as a church,
a breeze stirs reverential music as it
moves among the poplar leaves.

Far away I hear an owl's prayer
and watch the evening clouds drift in
like white-smocked altar boys.

Soon darkness draws a blindfold over me,
yet I still hear and smell and feel
this autumn night, with winter waiting
unseen in the wings.

Rose Moore Oct. 1994