September Sun never quite rises,
Choosing to slink along the ridgeline,
Never overhead
Collar turned up against the coming darkness,
Bound for the back door and it’s own
Irish Goodbye.
Glancing sideways at the forest on the way out
It cuts sharp shadows never seen in summer
That split the stream and
Frighten the trout.
The mail lady usually just brushes past behind where I sit and read with a smiling hello. She delivers to the back porch – a shorter trip for her from the neighbor’s- where I take my midday wine. I couldn’t swear which came first, me sitting back there or her delivering back there. She had delivered my mom’s place too and when she was ahead on her route, she’d sit and have a cigarette with her. So I kept an ashtray back there though I’d long given it up.
Today was coupon day and I heard her rustling the papers as she came through the side yard. I tried not to look for fear she’d catch me eyeing her knobby knees and thin calves. For whatever reason, she paused and lay a hand on my shoulder as a cool, warning breeze rattled the dahlias. “Some days”, she said, I just want to give you a hug.” We had held each other tightly that morning we found my mother on the floor.
“Feel free”, I told her, covering her warm hand with mine and imagining the pony tail flowing through the back of her cap. “Strawberry blonde is my favorite flavor.”
“Don’t you mean color?” she asked.
“That too.”
Instead of a hug she squeezed and twisted my earlobe leaving it burning and cold at the same time.
“You’re bad”, she said, continuing on her appointed rounds.
“Who doesn’t know that?” I asked, going back to my book.
Let's sleep in the same tent for awhile. Hold up beside a river, in a place nobody knows. Up off the gravel in the high grass We’ll tend the fire and gather strength. We’ll spend the night dancing in the starlight Making love to the light of the moon. We’ll invent a language- Secret looks, words and winks That only we understand. Then we’ll sleep and dream the same dream. We’ll share the sunrise, Pack and go on; Knowing the world will never look The same again.
Written for my brother’s wedding which took place on a dock on a glassy lake tucked between rolling green mountains and high blue skies. We were surrounded by friends, families, feasted on chicken and good wine and danced under swinging lanterns to mountain fiddlers. The marriage lasted years, through two farms, six dogs, a couple of herds of delicious small goats, countless chickens, ducks and many good dinners. But I knew from that day on the dock that she was crazier ‘n a shithouse rat and it was only a matter of time. Of course, I’m sure she would have a different perspective but this isn’t journalism. I couldn’t give two shits about her perspective.
The stars are reflected in the grass tonight, as fireflies refuse to fly anymore. They lay about in the thick brush, a flickering blanket answering the twinkle from on high. Do they act like this on long summer evenings? How could they? Kids would scoop them up by the million! Jar them, squish them, write their initials with glowing firefly goop on their arms. Boy kids chasing girl kids squealing with glossy boogers of firefly goop. No, they wouldn't lay about like this in the summer. But now they seem tired, these flies. These non-flies. These fire layabouts. It's September after all. Dark at eight thirty, kids busy with their homework, staring at their screens. It's safe to lay in the weeds, done with the darting and flying exerting minimum effort. If a firefly's flicker is meant To draw a mate, these lazy bums should go home alone. © TDR - 2020
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