Intense for Sunday Scribblings

It's the last to change

and this year

I didn't think it would.

As the hillsides

turned fiery,

this tree outside

my kitchen window

stayed green. Summer

in autumn. Watermelon

rind green. Other leaves

drifted to the ground

creating multicolored

quilts but outside

my kitchen July

stubbornly held on.

Then one morning

I noticed a slight

yellowing along

the edges. Amid

the bare branches

of other trees

this maple turned

pineapple. A warm

sunrise. A treasure

chest of gold doubloons.

And this last day

of October

it illuminates

the snowflakes

swirling in the air.

Big Tent Poetry: Travel Haibun

Haibun=prose followed by haiku.
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Second-block students saunter haphazardly into class. Books are piled on desks. Conversations begin. I head out to the hallway, do the normal teacher duties, for the last time. This thirty-year trip will be over in June. I watch the teenage parade, each marcher so different. There's Joe with his three-inch platform boots, white cargo pants, and black make up. There's Felicia in her skinny jeans. (I'd kill for a body like hers.) Here comes Anthony with his baggy jeans half way down his butt and the crotch somewhere around his knees. And look at Tonya's new golden hair and secret smile. She has her first boyfriend. They are all on their own trips, traveling in separate bubbles, bouncing along the locker-lined corridors.

Cranberry, melon,
apricot: autumn-dressed leaves.
One drifts to the ground.

Monday Poetry Train: I Saw Time

I saw time
this July morning
on I 95
between Saco
and Biddeford, Maine.

In the middle
of a bank
of lavender clover,
a clump of brown-eyed-susans

staring at me
through autumn
eyes.

I rolled
my window
up against
the chill.

Invitation

for Sunday Scribblings
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The oak leaves
are waving
for me to join
them outdoors.

The sun’s eyes
have that come-on
look, bright,
inviting.

Through the pine trees
I see a lone maple
turned red,
a heart

beating, alive,
enjoying the life
left to it.
The air

is a golden gift.
All I have to do
is pull the ribbons
to open my day.

But what am I doing?
Sitting on the couch
watching Sunday Morning
and writing this poem,

feeling like the pair
of dungarees I see
hanging on the line,
stuck there.