Saving Grace

On a trip to nowhere,

plans gone haywire, wild goose chase,

in the season of hay rolls

and gathering geese,

this is what I saw:

rocks perched on fence posts,

brown-tasseled corn stalks,

a northern harrier gliding low

over a yellow field sprinkled with purple.

September is a gift to receive

open-palmed with faces lifted

to the splendid light.

Windmills slice air into seconds

that form these golden hours.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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2 Responses to Saving Grace

  1. Millie Ho says:

    Good poem, Ray. I like the “open-palmed with faces lifted” line—reminds me of reddening leaves.

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