Sunday eventide, on the slope of the fire-hued mountain,
owls emerge from the pines' shelter of boughs,
I'm sitting by an open window,
the peace of writing in the night.
Hunters moon, so settled and goldenrod,
the young days of autumn's presence,
sipping cinnamon hot cider,
baying hounds in the smoky valley,
songbirds taking an evening vow of silence.
Writing of bygone friendships,
and gained faith,
harvest of bittersweet recollections,
surviving parent, a ghost of memories,
of loving words not spoken,
wishing to have been missed -
just as a childhood image,
of jumping into a tall mound of golden leaves,
parts my lips to a smile,
in the peace of writing in the night.
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