Poetry Friday is hosted by Michelle @ Today’s Little Ditty. Join us for the round up!
When I arrived at our farm early in July, this tree was not quite knee high in a field of corn, by late August when I left to go back to life and work in New Jersey, the corn was waist high. My last summer view of the field was of a swaying sea of green and gold – high season for corn.
When we returned last weekend, the corn was but a summer memory. Tractors were out at every farm in sight, mowing down the fields for silage. The tree stood tall, proud, and a bit lonely. Summer, it was clear, was finally over. The tree, it seemed to me, is preparing for a season of solitude.
For today, I will memorize
the two trees now in end-of-summer light
and the drifts of wood asters as the yard slopes away toward
the black pond, blue
in the clouds that shine and float there, as if risen
from the bottom, unbidden. Now, just over the fern—
quick—a glimpse of it,
the plume, a fox-tail’s copper, as the dog runs in ovals and eights,
The yard is a waiting room. I have my chair. You, yours.
The hawk has its branch in the pine.
White petals ripple in the quiet light.
In the quiet, a necklace of gourds on the fence.
A mourning cloak on a seeded spray of crabgrass.
An undulant whine of cicadas.