Poem # 68 Shadows speak softly of another time-of words in verse or the rhyme of new seasons/As we all must turn toward this elegant divulging/ The importance of my returning hope, that you may bless the Sun weary day~ I could consider those vast blue spaces in some newness or Love/Above me now Autumn whispers amid gentle wishing yellow or crimson leaves and the dancing frost remembers a cool birth rite in those tall withered grasses. Far beneath the careful eye of the moon/ Strands of black starlings surge within the dream of warmer latitudes. Our salvation was always in a beginning/Circles of rust coloured mushrooms darken an Old grey log/The stark private sound of a clear silver stream seems an Angel’s lamenting. As the ordinary skies shine infinite amid this Holy art of an ancient Sunday. Late Autumn 1996 Revised 12/10/2005 Photograph with digital art 2010