I am naked here,
arms stretched wide.
I’ve removed my apron,
my soles are rooted,
sandals tossed aside—
shaking my papery skins
of ochre, amber, umber,
deep chestnut brown
whistling down
as autumn storms
cause them to do
a little tune,
wild and flush,
like milk, like honey,
like money, or better—
the sound
of the storm-crested
rustling of two.
How cozy that morning
when the deer were in the yard
at daybreak,
soft glow from a book light,
coffee cup in hand.
How forgettable
after all that’s passed—
when the floors heaved
and rocks grew up through the boards.
When everything shook,
even the air rippled too warmly
around my head,
my ears hammering,
tuned in to ghosts
screeching in the hollow, to
the scream that
happens before the crash and echoes
ever after,
when my veins stopped
cold,
flatlined,
in the bite
of
your
words.
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© 2023 Jennifer Wagner |
It’s still a few weeks away from the yellow-gray of November. And even further from here. In the desert, the air has shifted to cooler—not 118, but now 80. The heat is more of a hug than a grizzly’s maul. The Valley of the Sun is not cool and dreary come autumn. It’s a valley of a different color. Kind color—sweet, perhaps. And it feels more like the mountaintop. After all, we survived summer.
bougainvillea
a wave of color
at summer’s finish line
© 2023 Jennifer Wagner
dVerse Haibun Monday: Fall foliage or Spring blossoms
(I’m posting too late for the link.)