A New England reflection
We came where Berkshire whispers dwell,
To walk the streets where silence fell
On painted doors and windowpanes,
Where autumn’s breath through white walls strains.
The maples blushed, the sky was clean -
A burnished blue, October’s sheen -
The kind of day New England keeps
To dream on when the winter sleeps.
The Steady One, with gentle pace,
Moved like a hush through time and place.
She paused for blooms in window sills,
And let her wonder take the hills.
We reached the Inn - the Lion’s heart,
Whitewashed and storied, set apart.
Its porch still breathed old timber’s lore,
A house of ghosts, and something more.
Since seventeen and seventy-three,
It’s watched the thread of history -
From coachmen’s boots to motorcars,
To ink-stained hands and Civil Wars.
It’s held the bold, the wise, the small,
Heard poets drink, and cradle’s call.
Its hearth still warms what years have known -
The living sharing time’s long loan.
And we, just two beneath its eaves,
Felt time move gently through the leaves.
A photo here, a keepsake glance -
The present giving past a chance.
We wandered on through crimson light,
The air so crisp, the day so right,
And came before a church of stone -
St. Joseph’s - solemn, still, alone.
Not white nor pale, but granite-gray,
Built firm to outlast wind and day.
The bell tower cast its shadow wide,
A quiet grace the years abide.
The grottos nestled to the side -
A place where whispered prayers reside.
Each saint stood calm in moss and vine,
Their faces worn, yet still divine.
We lingered where the water fell,
In trickling hymn and stony cell.
The Virgin there, with softened face,
Seemed carved from time and steadfast grace.
No grandeur shouted, none was missed -
Just stone and light and autumn’s kiss.
She knelt and touched the bench of prayer,
And I stood still just watching her there.
The Steady One - so calm, so near -
Who never bent to doubt or fear.
Faith, I thought, may not require
A skyward hand or tongues of fire,
But lives instead in those who stay,
And walk through storm, yet keep their way.
The grottos knew that kind of truth,
And echoed soft her steadfast youth.
Now twilight filled the windowpanes,
And cast long ghosts across the lanes.
We turned for home, her hand in mine,
With Stockbridge bathed in soft decline.
The Steady One, she walks with grace,
And gives this fleeting world its place.
And I - rough-handed, weathered, free -
Am steadied by her faith in me.
GBS
2024
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