Month: September 2018

A cloudy morning,
cooler than
yesterday. I pull out my a card,
ready to write my last
August poem this year.

Outside, thunder.

On the edge of sight,
a flicker
outside. One last
firefly.

Fragments written on postcards
during August.
Sometimes a poem. Sometimes
a piece of a
thought, or just words
on a card.

It was cool when we woke up.
A day to trim the wild vines
of Russian Olive straggling over
and across
the old bus stop path.

Cutting and cutting,
long clippers revealing bare
branches. Old hand cramped
and shaking.

The spider silk rope hangs
down over the brick path. A
crumpled leaf twists on the end
like a worm on a
fishing line.

A string of spider silk
hangs over the path.
A bit of dried leaf twist and
turns in the cool
morning air.

Last night it cooled off.
These summer
mornings, the cicadas singing
while I write. You still sleeping,
that comforter pulled up
to your ears. Dirty dishes fill
the sink. Waiting for you
to wake up.

That summer there was morning sunlight
as I walked to the bus stop
or instead took the long walk
from home to campus. That
summer there were endless games of
chess, days we spent mimeographing
newsletters against the war. Being
with you mornings before work.
It all seemed to stretch out
forever, such a long,
long time ago.