Last Year's Lilacs

This day is ever mine to live again.
Though wind and rain in fury may deform
And mutilate, I shall remember when
A timid rainbow stopped a month of storm.

This gentle month is mine, and in the fall
When cold winds shriek and chill of frost invites
My thoughts to winter fens, I shall recall
Rose-syllabled, soft-spoken summer nights.

I have stored cradle moons--performing duty--
With coral dawns, a robin's crystal bars,
The sighs of aspens ... From my garnered beauty
I can give last year's lilacs and bright stars.

When Catkins Crouch

My youth returns when furry catkins crouch
Upon a swaying amber willow wand.
Again I am a child and go in search
Of whistle-making wood by creek or pond.
But hark! I hear a willow-whistle blast--
My grandson telling spring is here at last.

The Coal-Oil Lamp

The coal-oil lamp burns low tonight

And shines across the dimming years,

Its memory a hallowed light

Of laughter interspersed with tears.

The coal-oil lamp burns low.

On father sitting there

It casts its homey glow

Upon his silvered hair.

The coal-oil lamp

Recalls old thrills:

Young foreheads damp

From climbing hills...

The coal

Of youth will light

The path from start to goal--

The coal-oil lamp burns low tonight.

Reflections

Old Coverlet

Made of far more than squares of calico,
This cherished coverlet, for Granny's fingers
Stitched in the faith that prompted men to go
To blossom barren sands. In each block lingers
The story she would tell me when a child--
Dear wise-tongued Granny! I heard graves' still-calling
Along the prairie; ghosts of wolf-cries, wild,
Slow-muted by the streams from mountains falling
Upon a fruited valley ... On the way
I saw Gran's sunburnt smiles, her tears ... In sorrow
Holding to the frayed hem of yesterday,
She reached to touch the new robe of tomorrow.
Not calico, but Granny's starward eyes--
What joy and grief and dreams each block encloses!
Loved murmur of desert lullabies,
She lived to see the wasteland bright with roses.

Lonely Homestead

The hills remember songs our father sang
When riding range before the break of day.
The winding trails where happy laughter rang
Are silent now, yet all along the way
The same wild roses, radiant and gay,
Hold modest faces to the sun. The sound
Of playing children in the twilight's gray
Is heard no more. Nostalgic meadow-ground
Awaits with hope for eager steps to bound
Across its greening carpet to make sweet
Its longing hours. The loved old home is gowned
In loneliness and yearns for children's feet
To skip across its floors. The years speed fast
Leaving the homestead dreaming of the past.

Twilight Ritual

I long for the wine of assurance
Feeling the doubtings of men;
My ship returns to its home port
To a scene of my childhood again:

Aspens sing for the river's
Lyrics that never grow old.
Stars pin back the curtains of twilight
On the sky with a broach of pale gold.

The breezes are quietly strumming
Tree harps, while a killdeer's far cry
Tunes the heart to the peace of contentment,
To the cricket's lullaby.

Father calls all the family together
To kneel round the hearthstone in prayer.
The harps of the aspens cease strumming
As he talks to God listening there.

Remembering Sun-Kissed Sage

The vines cling lovingly to gnarled old trees
Still holding hands across the laughing river.
Remembered coyote howls still send a shiver
Up through my spine. The lilac-harp-strings quiver
Strummed by returning robins. Errant bees
Sip nectar from the bluebell cups. The pleas
Of whippoorwill upon the canyon breeze
Retune the heart to love the Master Giver.

(How poignantly these childhood memories glide!)
The honeyed yellow dock conceals the age
Of hills grown old. A killdeer asks no wage
For healing twilight calls. How like a bride
The wild rose lifts her radiant face! I hide
Nostalgic tears, remembering sun-kissed sage.

Chaparral Writers' Year Book

A Place Apart

The bloom of flowers
And youth's glad hours--
     How very quickly they may fade.
     So keep a place where dreams may go
     And lingering, an accolade,
Make sweet your sorrow;                                                        
For when you borrow
     A star-mist ray from lovely things
     You keep apart--of dreams that grow--
     Then always something, something sings,
And paths of duty
Illume with beauty.

When Portals Close

How beautiful are those we love When finite portals gently close And precious memories unfold Like petals of a perfect rose!