Getting Close
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, 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 fries.
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 pale, thinning grass
to breathe in the blue haze of Russian sage,
and we are alone, together.
The moon relects pearls in our blushing wine.
Insect wings stitch seams of shelter
in the remnants of light. The force
of evening pulls us toward each other.
Your blood stirs, my breath catches.
Remnants of Summer
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 run to their rooms 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 drops pearls in our blushing wine.
Insect wings stitch seams in the descending
silk of night. The force of the evening
pulls us toward each other.
Your blood stirs, my breath catches.
Well, since I haven't heard anything, I think I'm choosing the first version of this with the exception of changing "blushing" (first line, last stanza) to "red" since "luscious" is gone. Someone told me "blushing" is too sentimental. Also no one until recently has mentioned it, but "kid's" should be "kids'", shouldn't it? (First stanza, fourth line.)
ReplyDeleteRuth,
ReplyDeleteI just got back to the blog. Sorry that I'm late in responding. My goal is to carve out some time each Sunday to look at it. This week I failed under the pressure of a big grant deadline we need to make to keep the department alive and thriving.
I think you made a good choice to go with the first one. I'm not sure what you are submitting it to, but whomever is getting a chance to look at it will have a quality poem here. Again, I like how this poem ends. The choice of vanishing and evening are both beautiful words to hear. I think sometimes if you can't choose a version of the poem you like better reading it out loud to yourself helps. Even better if you can read it out loud to someone. There is something about an audience that makes you see things about your own writing you didn't see before. I'll be back this Sunday, and every Sunday after this if all goes as planned. Thanks again for sharing.