Feel the changing seasons,
the tilt of the Earth’s axis,
the days growing longer as
the night desires to linger.
Summer seemed boundless,
the sundial casts long shadows.
I will miss you with your
brand of ripeness,
August’s lustrous brightness
inciting the senses with fields
afire beneath a summer sky.
Now its wheat is stacked and
bound in lonely batches.
Buried beneath autumn leaves
the earth imbues the darker hues
starless skies of delft blue and
gray swathes that cloak the dawn.
The ash of burning locust wood
shrouds the wilting garden with
the musky scent of autumn ghosts
heralding the chill.
Remember the summer
we were obsessed with Burroughs?
Anything familiar like far off thunder
close enough to subdue mad-paced hours.
Something inciting, a strike of lightning
the scent of combustion ready to ignite
everything electric that made us come alive.
Our hearts caught between whale song and sigh
spontaneous thunder and intermittent quiet
sporadic as a summer storm.
Leonid Afremov “Rains Rustle”
The waves are salty sea lions
and the sky is a shadow of gulls.
The summer sun spills down
my throat and there is little
need for words.
The sky is jacaranda and
the shore is willing to bear
the imprint of my bare feet,
slippery and wet.
The pearls I have gathered
I’ve scattered like the past,
cling to untied lifelines
something for my hands.
Steve Hanks Art
From the fog I can hear the sighs
of lovers lost in the monsoon.
Images flicker in my frontal lobe,
that man with the golden veins,
he doesn’t interest me now as
sip by sip I liberate my mind.
Later when I am cocooned in the dark
I will bring him back again.