I. The Serenade (A Sonnet)

Your silver song threads softly through my dreams,
Weaving silken visions of delight:
I soar o’er crimson mountains crowned in white,
Then glide through purple skies on moon lit beams!
My fantasy becomes a morning bold,
That sparkles bright as every waking bird
Pipes crystal trills, competing to be heard
‘Cross fields of lupin blue and poppy gold.
Then I awake and hear your music still,
Entwining gentle tendrils ‘round my heart.
“Come to me,” you plead, “let us depart!
I’ll never cease my song to you until
Together, hand in hand, we wander through
Fields of poppy gold and lupin blue!”

There’s an ache in the air of September
That longs for the winter’s rest,
It’s difficult now to remember
The breath of Spring we thought we loved best.

The tops of the redwoods are spangled
By Autumn’s ethereal glow,
While mosses and ferns, entangled
Guard the spent creek’s meager flow.

Here oak and aspen leaves shimmer,
Fueled by an inner source,
Exhaling the last of the summer
Sun’s exuberant force.

Now fog threads its way through the branches,
The redwoods sigh with relief,
Marking the mist as the cloud advances,
Soft, but relentless daylight thief.

A blanket of silence descends
From arbor to forest floor,
No tree-creak, no birdsong attends
The damp hush that sinks to the core

Of this, the year’s sweet balance point,
Between light and dark, watching and sleep.
I lift my face so the fog may anoint
The ache that has settled so deep.

Now my heart yearns for you, and holds you dear,
My heart holds you and yearns.