Another poem from Ruth

Hi Folks, Well, it's been a week, so time to post something again. I would like some feed back on my last poem on the one line "...tied to the one that is mine," as opposed to the original version.

For the next one, let me explain. I'm going to register for a one day poetry workshop where someone critiques your poem anonymously. The poem has to be 20 lines or fewer which is hard for me. The deadline is soon, October 4.

A while back, probably six months ago, I wrote a short poem which I thought was finished, and so didn't want to submit it because I'd rather have help on something I'm unsure about. On the other hand, what I thought was finished may really need some critiquing.

Anyway, I am writing a poem specifically for this event. I unearthed a very old poem and have tried shortening and redoing it. It seems kind of lackluster, maybe because I don't have my heart in it (as I would have when I wrote the original.) However, it is kind of typical for me, so I would probably learn a lot from hearing the critique.

I tried a few new ones, but they weren't my usual stuff which is what I want for this workshop. Anyway, I really do need some timely input on this. I want to get rid of the glaringly clumsy parts, and who knows, maybe the whole thing should be tossed. In which case I'd like to post that other "finished" poem I mentioned earlier.

Maybe I should also post the other one to get opinions about which to submit. But right now I am interested in some timely comments on this one.  There are a couple of parentheses in which I've put possible alternative words:

Untitled (as yet)

The end of August is tinder dry. On the path, your steps

raise clouds of golden dust that obscure your form,

already cryptic (distant maybe?). You pass faded blue towels, laid

out to dry, and kid's sandals I've matched in pairs,

each a hook and eye, a charm to keep us joined.

Inside, the oak table is scattered with new red

notebooks and yellow pencils. I clear them

for summer's last supper. Tonight you're remote;

the children eat and run to grieve the start of school,

though sparks of excitement crackle in the air.

High pitched voices fade, and in the silence

I see it's dusk and we have some rare time alone.

We carry glasses of wine out to the thinning, pale grass

to hail the last full moon before harvest,

to breathe in the purple haze of Russian sage.

The moon drops lustrous pearls in our pools of blushing

wine. We glimpse iridescent wings stitch seams

of retreat (shelter maybe?) in the descending fabric of fall.

The force of the evening breaches the wall 

between us.  Your blood stirs, my breath catches.