August 20, 2008Wind through a forest
of red t-shirts and blue hats.
The crowd sighs.
August 21, 2008
One hundred miles
from asphalt roads,
up 95 North, we cross
the state line between work
and play. Dragonflies skim
the water's silver skin.
August 22, 2008
Ice House II
My skin ripples, remembers the burn
of frost even as I turn my face
toward a slant of sun. Every year
summer's skeleton is buried
in a tiny ice age. I burrow
in blankets, dream of ripe tomatoes.
August 23, 2008Frost sears the last
of summer's grass. Already
the edges curl yellow.
Tea steams, mingles with breath
and poetry, warms the air
in this open tent. Listen.
The geese warn of snow. "Now,
Now," they cry. My mind says
Indian Summer, my heart
knows they are right.
'mingles with breath and Poetry' Lovely line you.
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