It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes
  And roofs of villages, on woodland crests
  And their aerial neighborhoods of nests
  Deserted, on the curtained window-panes
Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes
  And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests!
  Gone are the birds that were our summer guests,
  With the last sheaves return the laboring wains!
All things are symbols: the external shows
  Of Nature have their image in the mind,
  As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves;
The song-birds leave us at the summer's close,
  Only the empty nests are left behind,
  And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.



 
 
God of the faithless
and God of the faithful,
with doubt, we come
in loneliness, we wait
silently, we pray
expecting nothing,
wanting everything.


God of the faithful
and God of the faithless,
You, who speak in whispered silence,
You, whose reason is mystery--
Your order is infinite;
remember, we are finite
and need words and reason.


God of the faithless
and God of the faithful
God in all forms and formless
who was, and is, and will be,
hear us and turn.
 
 
Each year should be the best year we have yet lived.
Each year we are more learned in the ways of life.
Each year we are wiser than the year before.
Each year our eyes know better the sights to seek.
Each year our ears listen with a finer tuning.
Every happening is a jewel, wrought about the fancy of time.
All that we understand of the universe is the setting for each sight and sound 
     of day.
The child looks with gladness each year to be one year older.
Should not this welcome pursue us all our years?
The piling of the years is a richness like the piling of gold.
Our years are coins with which we can purchase more wisely at the
bazaars of each new season.
Our love is more pliant and patient having been taught by time.
This New Year is one year older than the last.
The earth is more abounding in its growth.
The creatures have moved another step in their unfolding.
Humankind has left us one more year of art for our contemplation.
History is one year more resonant with lessons.
The sunrises are one year more familiar and promising.
The sunsets are one year less fearful,
and the peace of the night is one year closer.
 
 
The moon is dark tonight, a new
moon for a new year.  It is
hollow and hungers to be full.
It is the black zero of beginning.

Now you must void yourself
of injuries, insults, incursions.
Go with empty hands to those
you have hurt and make amends.

It is not too late.  It is early
and about to grow.  Now 
is the time to do what you 
know you must and have feared

to begin.  Your face is dark
too, as you turn inward to face
yourself, the hidden twin
of all you must grow to be.

Forgive the dead year.  Forgive
yourself.  What will be wants
to push through your fingers.
The light you seek hides

in your belly.  The light you 
crave longs to stream from
your eyes.  You are the moon
that will wax in new goodness.
 
 
Wake up. Day calls you 
to your life: your duty. 
And to live, nothing more. 
Root it out of the glum 
night and the darkness 
that covered your body 
for which light waited 
on tiptoe in the dawn. 
Stand up, affirm the straight 
simple will to be 
a pure slender virgin. 
Test your bodys metal. 
cold, heat? Your blood 
will tell against the snow, 
or behind the window. 
The colour 
in your cheeks will tell. 
And look at people. Rest 
doing no more than adding 
your perfection to another 
day. Your task 
is to carry your life high, 
and play with it, hurl it 
like a voice to the clouds 
so it may retrieve the light 
already gone from us. 
That is your fate: to live 
Do nothing. 
Your work is you, nothing more.  

 
 
In the land 
of words, I stand as still 
as a tree, 
and let the words 
rain down on me. 
Come, rain, bring 
your knowledge and your 
music. Sing 
while I grow green 
 and full. 
I'll stand as still 
as a tree, 
and let your blessings 
fall on me.