The humidity drowns out flowers,
the gem birds, the jewel songs – gone,
steamed vegetables – still growing,
Perhaps August has forgotten how
we suffer – breathing in the hot rain,
our garments sticking to their battles,
Then there’s a B&B in New Hampshire
that measures the temperature in
steaming cheddar biscuits eaten in A/C,
And at night, there is a down comforter
for each guest, and the hot water bill
goes through the roof every summer.
Perhaps August doesn’t know it’s winter
at Barthe & Bramble B&B, maybe we
just might stay ’til the leaves,
‘Til the first frost, when it’s safe
to come out, maybe we move in, maybe
we make ’em all three dog nights – this
summer’s end, this bubbling peach
a pie tree.
to fall into air.
Come a hearty soup, come
a pasta dish with beef and
four cheeses, bring steaming
garlic bread, and in the night,
a cup of cocoa to warm the soul.
It summers here
my early spring
when you hold me
and you’ve wanted
the flowers in winter
you’ve wanted the
new green music
because you’ve been
looking a long time
and finally found
A nything falling will learn to fly.
U nderstand, I mean you, too.
T ake these words to heart
U ntil you are rustling.
M any the things that tiptoe
on the wind.
N ote to Self: forget your parachute!
if winter was some other
summer than white, and spring
wasn’t rushed into its good-byes,
if the ocean was some other
Great Lake, and the garden grew
forgetful until harvesting,
how I would make of my lifetime
an autumn season where finding
you was some other seeking than