LARRY D. THOMAS

Evensong

In the year's adagio she walks. 
Through shadows thick as ferns
clotting with leaves

falling in tumultuous radiance,
she walks. Each vivid leaf
is a miracle. The symphony

of her thoughts is unfinished,
postponed for another day.
The sanctity of stones

bestows her moccasins with touch.
Her only catechism
dribbles from the throats of thrushes.

Blue jays and cardinals
are shards of stained glass
rapturous with sunlight.

Her cathedral of falling leaves
enshrouds her with the red
and yellow brilliance of soft worship.

 

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