There were
New leaves on an old apple tree
When April broke.
.
There was
The neighbor’s hoarse laugh
Soured by beer and night,
Sharpening the point where morning
Turns the other way.
.
There are
Far off places where things are ahead
And different
Stirrings of home
In that way younger years
Can hold us in a spell.
This place,
Moored in silent copies
Of homes that fell forgotten
With new times and other stories.
.
It leans back from view,
Into dark brown shingles
Worn in sun and storm
Fallen behind and piled
Along old trees and
New Spring grass.
.
Stories of families
Broken and gone for healing,
With chit chat smiles of angst
Tossed across a gravel lot
Of broken high heels
And closet cigarettes.
.
All of it, staring across the way,
Escaping with the glances of drivers by.
Arrived,
Fresh on afternoon winds:
The turn of heads into the
Gotcha moment
When it’s all too late
To recommend the
movies any longer.
.
Matinees be damned.
There is a method to December,
Chilled cradle to summer’s child.
If I wait to count the rain
Just long enough.
In between,
the fair gauze of sky and storm
Holding us in a spell
While morning turns back
Again.
This world of rock and water
Green ghost of new worlds
And the long places between.
We stop at the windows
Splashed in rowdy November
Squalls pushing against one another
Crowding us.
.
Time might come
Arriving on a speck
of afternoon sun.
More hope than seen.
We might dare this suddenly
windless place:
Up close, gone quiet
In a big empty pull.
.
There are sounds out there:
Up above and
Gone away from here.
This time,
We played baseball.
A Sunday routine sprawled under cool gray skies,
In the grassy corners between brick buildings.
Backway into downtown.
.
Effervescent afternoons,
Mingled in fantastic stories of love and laughter,
Pushing away the winds,
Stalking crosswalks
And small, empty places.
.
Company, sometimes, on the way to cheap drinks,
Rattle of ice,
And the rhythm of a creaking barroom door,
While glitter rains down from the sky.
This time,
We played baseball,
A Sunday routine sprawled under cool gray skies,
In the grassy corners between brick buildings,
Backway into downtown.
Effervescent afternoons,
Mingled in fantastic stories of love and laughter,
Pushing away the winds,
Stalking crosswalks
And small, empty places.
Company, sometimes, on the way to cheap drinks,
Rattle of ice,
A creaking barroom door,
While glitter rains down from the sky.
The long bridge of dawn
Mends the space of summer
With the syrup of October.
Finally…
The hissss of light rain on river,
A day of this,
After the wind,
Settles summer’s score.
Now salmon stir
In the new, sweet water.
—- OR —-
DRAFT 2:
Act 1: Summer’s score,
Patiently settled by the wind.
Act 2: Soft skies,
And the long hiss of light rain,
On a late afternoon river.
Act 3: In the new, sweet water,
Salmon stir.
This is what I wanted to say
Before I fell muttering over sour coffee:
.
On october 19, at sunset,
A bright glow traces the place where summer ends
And the promise of winter begins.
.
Never quite seen then.
Sure, we’ll get the hope, But
Only see how summer has gone woefully stale,
Even wrong.
.
After a few more years,
The rhythm plays loud,
Then, the time will come,
And catch us muttering,
As we look far across the field,
Into the bright October sky.
.
Shaken Rain 