When the wind drops off in September,
Chatterings of the old men can be heard.
From over the old cobblestone fence,
Where the moss holds fast in summer,
A slow-moving memory of winter
Tucked among the stones.
.
Oh, and the men tell stories,
Chewing the dried stalks of grass,
Like wands hanging from their teeth,
Proclaiming truth to their words.
.
When the wind drops off in September,
They know to convene at the old stone wall.
.
This is where they come to
Laughing, chewing,
Gesturing to their memories.
Those bits and pieces that follow along
Normal lives of grief and joy, woe and hope.
All bringing life back to the old men now
All there perched along the old stone wall.
.
This is the place they would come,
And bite deeply into those old places,
Or maybe just wave their wands,
Watching the sun cast long October shadows now,
Letting the tales of others color the afternoon.
.
Then like the afternoon wind easing away into evening
They would part company, off to another time,
Where all those things didn’t need to matter,
.
Or until it was all forgotten again and they had to reconvene,
Along the old stone wall, a september meeting,
Where the grass still weeps with the young girl,
The sun sighs a last greeting before dipping past the trees,
And the old sign rattles on the fading breeze.
Shaken Rain 