I stepped outside to make a call.
Inside, a woodwind played
arpeggios. Crisp russet leaves
trilled Autumn’s serenade
and ceased. No wind. The woods stood still.
No chill proscribed the joy
in every rising timbered note 
scaled by the practiced boy
within that house. I felt each pulse—
struck suddenly aware—
Sound pierced a veil, my heart rang out,
love tore the living air—
And then wild geese droned overhead,
a squadron in its prime.
Around the turn Thanksgiving sings                                      
sweet hymns in common time.
                        

Their appearance signals prohibition:
Nearness Not Allowed. And yet we gather                
them to fashion festive autumn wreaths, 
fill baskets for our harvest hearth, complete 
a mantle dressed with votive, velvet ribbon,
and fragrant yards of evergreen that drop 
their needles far before the advent of 
the Christ child. It’s a way of bringing outside 
in—to celebrate—to mark each Yule 
and keep the warmth and spirit of the growing 
season going. As it strangely happens, 
fallen pinecones fit within the palm, 
resembling, of all things, tossed hand grenades, 
their armored task of keeping safe the tiny                                       
baby teeth-like seeds they bear and hide
and guard fulfilled. Harvested still green, 
Pinyon pinecones shield and yield the finest 
tasting pine nuts. Shelled—laborious work—
they’re tender, nutty, and divine when toasted. 
To think that such a fierce façade protects 
this warm, concealed goodwill! As a Brownie 
I learned in childhood to share bright summer’s store
by spreading pinecones with Skippy peanut butter  
we rolled in birdseed and tied with a loop of twine, 
for dangling from a tree branch with window view.
It always brought the cardinal’s crimson visit,
so never judge a pinecone by its shell.
He was winter thankful, I could tell.
                        

Grace: almost always undeserved yet miraculous gift
Ratifying belief in hope
And sometimes justice. Prodigy
That evolves back
Into childhood—brave blue crayon house, red flowers, yellow sun;
Teachers who strike Promethean fires;
Understanding, which inevitably follows heartbreak’s inaugural tear; and
Daydreams—in other words
Everything you meet, dreamer, that leads your letters here.