Leaves of Autumn
These were the days after the hurricane.
Summer left, limping, with a broken wing.
We swept what was left of the water from the concrete porch
into the grass, to wend its way through the smooth stones
into the French drain,
and
disappear eventually, to the front of the house.
Every night, around dusk,
we walk
together, barefoot, toward the mailbox
halfway
down the block.
Hand in hand (most days), we
walk in silence,
breathing
in the late afternoon;
it is as if, those days, we measure the movement of the
summer heat. Our
lungs are the daily barometer, the heaviness of
the
humid Houston air.
With the advent of September, and the eventual creeping
earlier
of
dusk, the sun leaves us a few seconds, earlier each day,
we pull
the mail from the box:
People en Español, Cinco Hill Review, the assorted
varieties
of medical bills,
we are what was left when August no longer was.
MR
2017-0906