Mirth, full of joy as summer bees, Sits there, its pleasures to impart, And children, ‘tween their parent’s knees, Sing scraps of carols o’er by heart.

The lamps are burning in the synagogue, In the houses of study, in dark alleys . . . This should be the place. This is the way.

On a clear winter’s evening The crescent moon And the round squirrels’ nest In the bare oak Are equal planets.

The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night, Ya-honk!  he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation.

Heap high the farmer’s wintry hoard! Heap high the golden corn! No richer gift has Autumn poured From out her lavish horn!

We lie on the cold sand and it embraces us, this beach where locals never go in summer and boast of their absence.

How silently they tumble down And come to rest upon the ground To lay a carpet, rich and rare, Beneath the trees without a care.

On the last of October When dusk is fallen Children join hands And circle round me Singing ghost songs And love to the harvest moon.

Poor little Ada Queetie She used to do everything I told her, Let it be what it would, And knew every word I said to her.

Wild geese stir in the early morning calm With a ripple of their wake. Far off, near the shore’s arm of dune that holds the pond, A kayak glides.

Smooth reflections of rock and tree, And out past the narrows a glimpse of sea? While I, of the scene a conscious part, Have a harbor for all in my welcoming heart.

It’s all a farce, — these tales they tell About the breezes sighing, And moans astir o’er field and dell, Because the year is dying.

The milkweed pods are breaking, And the bits of silken down Float off upon the autumn breeze Across the meadows brown.

I cannot endure to waste anything as precious as autumn sunshine by staying in the house. So I spend almost all the daylight hours in the open air.

Under a blue cloud-ruffled sky, Dense trees along the banks, And a fellow with a red bandana Sitting in a small, green Flat-bottom boat Holding the thin whip of a pole.

Among the first we learn is good-bye, Your tiny wrist between Dad’s forefinger And thumb forced to wave bye-bye to Mom, Whose hand sails brightly behind a windshield.

Across the evening sky all the birds are leaving But how can they know it’s time for them to go? Before the winter fire, I will still be dreaming.

The year’s best blueberry scone Gorgeous needlework being shown Iron skillets being thrown We recall what has always made the Vineyard unique.

The paper lanterns rise, filled with golden fire, flaming specters devour our heaven sent desires.

I unclothed myself in silence, draped my flesh upon their flesh, released my dreams to run with theirs, in pairs our quiet clocks chimed in unison.