Lillian Cripps, my grandmother, for whom I wrote this.

Your dusty hat is hanging in the light of heaven still,

and there’s a basket you didn’t fill

beside it, and there may be two or three

berries you didn’t pick beneath some stem

but for other, fresher, hands you must leave them.

For you are done with berry picking now.

The row on row of berries grew beyond your sight

and called you to kneel and bow in harvest rite,

to reap the sweet reward of what you’d sown–

again, again–until you’re overcome.

Again, again, between finger and thumb,

you gently pinched the stem, then twisted and pulled.

Ten thousand thousand fruit there were to pluck,

and roll in palm and cradle to crate.  Those struck

and bruised, or burned by sun or showing rot

were lost.  And year on year, the berry yield

was just enough.  Around you in the field,

were those who would keep you from being alone,

but who could never touch your loneliness

or know your bitter taste of emptiness.

Though what disturbs this sleep of yours is plain,

there, in the arms of the angels, rest your soul:

accept your love and comfort, and be made whole.

For you are done with berry picking now.

From where he sat, the yard sale didn’t look

like much.  But Clayton saw the cider jugs

for sale, and he thought cider sweeter in

the fall–preferring it to winter’s mint,

to maple syrup in the spring, to drops

of summer’s honey.  With October’s frost

apparent on the leaves, Clay stopped the truck.

The old man put a finger on the page

to mark his place and looked up long enough

to nod a greeting.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Clay said, “Hey.  What’s up?”

Beneath the chair, the dog’s tail thumped the ground.

Above the barn, a setting sun poured rays

of yellow light that bathed the fields in gold

but could no longer warm the autumn air.

Clay thought he’d make a cordial pass around

the goods before he bought his cider. You

can’t ever tell, he told himself, might find

a thing or two worth having.  That was when

he found the wooden turkey call, the kind

that makes the basic gobbles, whines and yelps.

The lid was fairly worn, so Clayton knew

the box was old.  The wood was strong in grain

and hue; the craftsmanship was stronger still.

“I made her m’self,” the old man said.  ”She’s sound.”

Clay looked at him with doubt, then noticed his

two rough and burly hands.  They marked a man

who did most things himself.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx “She’s old, but not

as old as she might look.  I worked her some,

I guess.  There’s times I call ‘em just for fun.”

He smiled a shy smile.  “Local roosters got

to know me.”

xxxxxxxxxxx Clayton looked again and saw

the lined and weathered face, the peaceful eyes,

the wind-blown silver hair, and knew this was

a man who’d lost the need for straying from

the truth.

xxxxxxx “She’ll still call though.”  He closed his book

and opened his left hand, and Clayton put

the call in it.  He slowly dragged the lid

across the box until it closed and made

a clear, sure two-note whine.  “That side’s the hen,”

he said.  “The gobbler’s on the other.”  Then,

he gave it back to Clay.  “It don’t take long

to learn.”

xxxxxxxxxx “I’m sorry, but the turkey hunt

was never my best sport.”  The man and box

returned to chair and table.  Clayton made

his rounds, then bought his cider in two jars,

a gallon each.  About to stow the jugs

behind the driver’s seat, he heard the old

man softly ask,

XXXXXX “Say, you got kids?”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Clay said,

“Just one, a son,” and thought the question odd.

The old man stood and pulled the handmade bird

call from the pile again.  He rubbed his hand

across the grain, as if to brush away

some dust, and looked it over through a long

and heavy sigh before he said, “Well, I’m

alone–my line has reached its end–so you

might just as well have this ol’ piece of junk.”

Clay reached for money, but the old man shook

his head.  “Your boy and you might call a bird

or two with it, eh?  Even just to watch.

Who knows, it could be you’d come ’round here now

and then.”

XXXXXXXXX Clay nodded that he understood

and, after shaking hands, he took the box.

“The cider’s good,” he said, not knowing what

to say. “I think I’ll take another jug.”

My sweet September dawn, resist

the growing, dewy morning glow,

retard the sun with gentle mist,

begin the hours of this day slow.

Allow the birds a brief delay,

a pause, before they take to wing.

My sweet September dawn, betray

the coming winter’s hurried sting.

Our growing season seemed too quick;

our harvest work is not yet done;

our berries have not ripened thick:

slow, slow the rising autumn sun.

Create a day that seems less brief.

Release one leaf at break of day,

at noon release another leaf;

one from my trees, one far away.

The men, the boys, don’t come here anymore.

The women come to visit her and dim

the memory of he who went before,

but men and boys no longer mention him.

The house is growing empty places, grim

and chilling gaps where his things once gave

a quiet, dusty voice to secret hymns

that marked his modest path from womb to grave.

The men and boys don’t join me here now; they’ve

forgotten how it was for them when he

inspired them, taught them, loved them.  But I crave

the scent, the feel of traces left to me.

A corner holds two rods–not much is here–

and when I turn the reels I feel him near.

He waits: no inning’s yet been played;

no runs, no hits, no errors made.

He waits: the infield’s not been chalked;

no strikeouts thrown, no batters walked.

He waits for baseball in the sun,

for eating hot dogs on a bun.

I rake the field and mark the line

because his dreams – they once were mine.

This time of year, the lake is mine alone.

So are the woods.  The trees have only buds,

so sunlight fingers reach the forest floor

soon after they unfold a creamy hand

above the eastern hill.  The grains of ice

that form at night on twigs and leaves of grass

reflect the light and glitter as they melt.

In windless hours, the scent of rich, wet soil

is strong, the fresh air trembles with the life

and power straining for release, and I

am filled, rekindled, set afire by one

exquisite draw of breath.  (The darker hours

are, if I’m up in time to see them, crisp

and brittle tokens of the frigid hold

from which the warming Earth is breaking free.)

This time of year, canoes make different sounds

when gliding in the water; paddles seem

to make no sound at all.  This time of year,

my casting line floats through the morning mist

and drops the heavy lure with little more

disturbance than a whisper.  When the sun

is high enough to lift the fog, I stop

to sip the black and steaming coffee from

the Thermos lid.  It’s then I realize that

I’ve yet to get a bite, and that my mind

has been on other men who loved this time

of year.  It’s then I realize that my rod

and reel are tools to reach beyond myself.

By going where they went, by doing what

they did, by knowing what they loved, I try

to draw them near.  I hope to hold them here.

I put the lid back on the coffee, swing

the bow toward a likely shoreline knot

of roots and lift my rod.  This time of year,

I fish for something deeper, sweeter.  This time

of year, the lake is overrun by one.

The hard and gnarled hands took hold of post

and rail to steady legs uncertain in

their age.  The dimming eyes made narrow lines

to better see beyond the gray eclipse

of years.  He looked toward the pasture where

his father used a team of chestnut draughts

to clear the trees and grazed the growing herd.

He looked toward the pasture where he gleaned

a life much sweeter than he could have dreamed.

Now wearied, worn from harvests he’d desired,

he thought he saw the season’s coming end.

He thought he saw what long he knew was next,

but feared no less for knowing: quiet, cold,

and winter, winter, endless winter dark.

He blinked away the sight and turned to go.

But there, in grass still glistening with dew

and washed with sunlight, stood a newborn calf,

so young it tottered when it tried to walk.

The moistened eyes drew wide to better see

beyond the gray eclipse of years.  He thought

he saw another spring:  it was the first

of springs; it was his father’s spring; it was

his early spring; it was a future spring.

The hard and gnarled hands reached out to hold

the calf–warm, wet and trembling with life–

and steady legs uncertain in their youth.

There’s a fir in our front yard

that seems to never mind the cold.

And though the wind’s been blowing hard,

the roots have never failed to hold.

For all our years, I’ve watched it grow

– a taller, fuller, richer tree

expanding where the kids won’t mow –

but now there’s something else I see.

That thriving fir, that evergreen,

alive despite the blows of chance,

reflects our love: The storms we’ve seen

were too weak to thwart our great romance.

This root that holds us fast in strife

and nurtures us in sweeter times

is now my source of joy in life

and cause for these, my humble rhymes.