Posts Tagged ‘ Summer ’

The Trudge

at dusk day’s heat

has not stymied.

 

the sun droops behind the treeline

the buzz of cicadas presses in my ears.

from the pit

firesmoke clings to my hair;

the pork comes off the spit

thick with gristle and slathered in hot sauce.

i lick my upper lip.

 

from the porch a fiddlin’ band watches

the day’s slow trudge westward.

fingers dance over strings

the gentle rub of horsehairs

sending song to the rafters.

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.

Indian Summer

It was foretold

the year of the Indian Summer:

The wind flies to the western deserts

and pebbles in the river bed

turn to ruby stones.

 

On the wedding day, woeful coos

of turtle doves echo through the township

from dawn to dusk.

Guests in confetti dresses

sip lemon juice beneath the shade

of Spanish moss.

The bronze bell cracked

just before the virgin bride walked

in linen and lace

to the front of the steeple.

Heat sat on heavy haunches

in the rafters.

 

In search of a wife, the visitor

with the red felt hat alights from the train.

But the streets are empty,

the virgin is already kissed.