A newlywed visit to Jake’s river 
camp yielded lapfuls of pears 
not grocery-store Bartletts 
but thick-skinned Kiefers 
not tasty raw 
but when canned in thin syrup 
a pale pink autumn gala 
fringed in sun’s gold 
a wink of sweetness 
 
That fall jars jigged in canner 
on coal-fired stove 
lids popped like exclamation  
points when dusk buttoned sun 
transom screen greeted evensong 
 
Winter saw jars, like soldiers, line 
wine cellar walls 
hidden below lids a scent 
memorable as baby’s first step 
 
Next spring soil coddled 
our own Kiefer’s roots 
tree grew, limbs askew 
a bout of fire blight—teenage angst 
 
But even now after years 
of lean and feast, these gnarled 
limbs seldom enter fall’s pages empty
                        

Title from “The Lightest Touch” by David Whyte 
 
In the silence that follows a thunderclap 
	there is a possibility of novelty and nuance 
		nudged by the humble promise of petrichor 
 
In the silence that follows a Bach fugue 
	there is a handshake of completion sealed 
		by fingers of symmetry and the soul of splendor 
 
In the silence that follows a lion’s roar 
	there is a majesty enthroned in the clouds 
		laced with the taste of sand stranded between teeth 
 
In the silence that follows a baby’s first cry 
	there is a prayer that tears be swaddled by rocking 
		even as fears weep in silent harmony 
 
In the silence that follows a birthday toast 
	there is a taste of brightness, sweet as cake 
		sprinkled with seasoned motes, aroma of the past