Ruth Here

Not to beat a dead horse--you've seen this before because I workshopped it in October and I didn't get one piece of advice.  But they did say it was good.  I shared it with my poetry group Wednesday and then I got advice.  So I'm trying to clean this up to submit to "Lyrical Iowa" in February.  I'm posting a version that has a lot of things in parenthesis, italicized, words or phrases I may cut.  (Or in one case, alternatives about food for dinner.)   I'd like your opinion about cutting these and other changes I might make.  One suggestion I got is I should start the romantic encounter between husband and wife earlier in the poem--but I kind of like it this way.  Advice?

Remnants of Summer

The end of August is tinder dry. Your steps raise clouds

of golden dust that follow you to the house, hiding

your shadow. On the porch, sun-faded towels

are laid out, and kid's sandals are matched in pairs

of half-hearts, good luck charms for our marriage.

Inside, I watch from the window.  The oak table

is scattered with lined paper and yellow pencils.

I clear them for summer's final supper, fish and rice. (beef and bread, mash, chicken, grain, roots)

Children vanish to grieve the start of school, 

though sparks of excitement crackle in the air.

High pitched voices dissolve, and in the silence,

the day has melted to dusk. We carry glasses

of wine (out) to the thinning pale grass,

(to greet the last full moon before harvest,)

to breathe in the blue haze of Russian sage,

and we are alone, together.

The moon drops (lustrous) pearls in our blushing wine.

Insect wings stitch seams (of shelter)

in the descending fabric of fall. The force

of the evening pulls us toward each other.         

Your blood stirs, my breath catches.

Another version:

The end of August is tinder dry. His steps raise clouds

of golden dust that follow him to the house, hiding

his shadow. On the porch, sun-faded towels

are laid out, and kid's sandals are matched in pairs

of half-hearts, good luck charms for our marriage.

Inside, I watch from the window.  The oak table

is scattered with lined paper and yellow pencils.

I clear them for summer's final garden harvest.

Children vanish to grieve the start of school, 

though sparks of excitement crackle in the air.

High pitched voices dissolve, and in the silence,

the day has melted to dusk. We carry glasses

of wine out to the thinning pale grass,

to breathe in the blue haze of Russian sage,

and we are alone, together.

The moon casts (drops, reflects) pearls in our blushing wine.

Insect wings stitch seams of shelter

in the descending fabric of night. The force

of the evening pulls us toward each other.         

Your blood stirs, my breath catches.
 ......................................................................................................
 I changed "you" to "him."  I took out the specific kind of food; I'm not sure about that.  And made some other word changes...