Thursday, September 7, 2017
Overread at Table 2: from "Leaves of Autumn"
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.