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Summer’s here, the hum, the beat, the chime what better day to gather in words, for to make a rhyme

This high, holy day of our ancestral line consider it still, may we, a hallowed time.

Summer holds us in her tender measured glow

Making noontime shadows to barely show, now distant memories of winter snow turn to countless healthy weeds to hoe.

Summer’s long, long days to bend to our work and reap, catch we a moment of raging life within our winter keep

Mound we up lofty piles of hay, and pull our heavily loaded carts away.

Summers reapers, vigilant keepers picking every straw, stacking nature’s gifts of abundance in the hungry maw.

We work and work in summer’s haze, remembering winter’s bite, now we enjoy the wealthy rays of summer’s golden light.

Nursing along the tender young to show them off when summer’s done.

Not every patch or line is as a scare on her earthly shine, not every tree cut is a sin, amen for a fallen friend, but here a humble home for men.

God loves his toiling crew, that paints below the sky so blue.

Sun beams on the crowns of our heads one and all,  quench us in cool summer’s water’s fall.

In memory now to turn again, to summer’s resplendent journey’s end.

Doug Moore, June 21, 2011


They dance so smoothly across the sky

Pars, like dancers in transit before my eye

My body worms at the thought of you

(You) how have captured our hearts

You who stands on a threshold so high

No one to deny you

Be on top, the mountain hop

I lie here on this meadow below her

Casting an eye to heavens solder

Cumulus clouds make for all things at random

Like circling dancers

Or shimmering angels


When I think of  you,

I see too of everything

Dress me in the sound

of your thousand angels company

Carried on wings renowned

Though our heads are bowed in humility

They sing and a mountain, it moves (inside me)

Their song, it thins the boundary

Between heaven and earth

They care more for our souls

Then the shells of our birth

A treasured thing

Is a wants lived in being

A life long mystery

Like an echo of a song

Who will show up for me?

Will I remember you?

Or will you, me?  And

What of them will I see?


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