Pennsylvania in September
is sunscreen and cinnamon
with zucchini bread
and roadkill on the side.
We wear sweaters and shorts
and go wading in potholes.
Pumpkins and watermelons
are carved with equal zeal
in valleys between lush green hills
that are starting to go to seed.
From the porch, I can hear cows
lowing their farewells to the crickets.
I washed my face this morning
while the sun peeked over the hills
spilling a hazy light over the grass
The roses look a little battered
from the storm, petals like fresh wounds
scattered over a sleepy boxer
I rinsed my cereal bowl
without remembering eating,
daydreams taking the place of awareness
Smoothing my dress and slipping on shoes
ahead of a day full of a bloated calendar
with little room for summer breezes
I think I’m on a track of loss
where I feel millions of others nearby
without touching or stopping to breathe
Sunset was surprisingly fierce,
a reminder of many nights
spent decoding languages,
ignoring dozens of calculations
surrounding me like summer rain,
blowing sideways and with much noise.
I thought it might hurt to look,
so I watched colors run on the wall.
It was like the old shadows we made
and it sounded like a hymn of crickets.
It wasn’t that long ago
I was spinning in front of a mirror
watching my dress float around me
as my toes ignored the gritty floor,
my hair punched my chin,
my belly jumped like first love,
and I didn’t dare laugh at the magic
as I felt the weight of seasons glancing off
my skin, unlike now when I am wearing
every hot summer day and every deep
winter drift like a cloak and choker
in some sophisticated cocktail party
where I don’t know anyone but I have to
mingle to survive.
