On the eve of fall night light is damp with full clouds and a chill in the air. Some stars shine as others fade in the gray sky of night. Roses speak soft poetry and turn deaf gardens into light. Trees on the ridge thin as brush rustles in doe steps and tap dance of pattering rain. Perhaps a quiet turn of seasons or perhaps a turn of light twists dawn to day with recall of the father and all the poetry there is and was and ever be well.