Friday, September 22, 2017


Here, at summer's end
I pace.
Peering out
through the crack of a door,
opening the window
a bare inch to test the air,
still searing
with a sun bright
as a flashlight in the eye
when waking from sleep.

I am waiting
for the slow browning
of the grass,
the subtle shift 
to a darker hue
of tropics
and an ache of green
without end.

The first taste
has landed on my tongue,
fragile as a snowflake.
A breath of air
cooler when inhaled
than when exhaled.

Soon, there will be blooms.
Yellow and purple flowers
that explode on roadsides
and creep into
the corners of lawns.
This is the subtle Autumn
of the deep south.
It must be searched for
to be found.

And then will come
that first morning
when, upon stepping out the door
you remember
how to breathe
as humans do
and the gills of summer
will be packed away
for another year.

Then the natives
will tumble out of houses
to live their outside lives
of patio tables
and windows yawning wide
in a flutter of curtains
while something delicious
wafts from a far grill.

This is our season