indian summer*

And now for something completely cheerful, something that, alas, would not find its way into a literary journal for that very reason, and so it winds up here, with a poof. Have a beautiful Monday and a delicious week.



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autumn shoots out
two warm days,
and we stretch them
like a garden hose
from the back porch
to the alley,
squeeze from them
a car wash,
one last barbecue,
and a long scooter ride
past sundown,
our just-buried tanks
rescued from a bottom drawer.
we give the yard a final mow
and leave the clippings
of hay and onion grass
to spray a pungent,
dewy mist
where lazy dogs tread.

everything wants to hold on:
skeeters take a last stab
at sweet skin,
bees inhale the pop
and grow fierce
with imminent death,
butterflies suck
the purple blossoms dry,
even the green tomatoes
make a run for red.
you and I hold on too.

soon the stove will swoon
under curried pumpkin soup,
and radiators will take
a deep breath,
expel the lonely moans
they've held inside all year.

but today
it's eighty-six degrees,
and I am swinging
into the clouds.



- - - - - - - -

*The etymology of this phrase has been long fabled and long disputed. I'm using it to refer to the day, just into autumn, that native Americans harvested their last crops.


For more audible doggy fun, visit the newly uploaded "Core Breach."