Height of Summer

The height of summer was marked:

the yellowing of magnolias

their pearly blossoms changed

the color of ancient parchment.

 

By then the mud for makin’ patties

was caked hard.

I was bored.

I wandered the winding trail of barren creek bed

east of the old Crescent tracks.

Iron rails torn up by fiends,

tall weeds born at the bolts.

 

At the poplar grove, where the gospel singers met

she dove underground:

a subterranean fountain.

The men wore green tweed,

their ladies’ auburn hair tucked in wicker bonnets.

The song was like yards of navy silk.

During baptisms, it crescendoed:

wails like Clymenes’

hands groping through prisms

of sunlight streaking the surface

a child gasping for air out of the cool stream.

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    • rosalie catanoso
    • July 9th, 2011

    “The song was like yards of navy silk”… amazing. love the ending so much

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