Just before slip of night,
I hear him
through whispered promise
of summer leaves
trembling under a lush moon–
let us go gently,
he says,
together, like favorite words
in a well-loved book.

It was big band,
billowing chiffon,
with a touch of cigar
that reminded her
of mandolin echoes,
sticky flannel,
and swirling woodsmoke
of an almost lost autumn.

Starting with a kiss of grass,
morning tastes like when I was a girl
– before the smoke
and yet after I knew
how clouds mattered
more than ‘us’
and counting steps
to the backyard
was better than coins.
I close my eyes,
inhaling sun, exhaling doubt.

It struck me,
six minutes ago,
while viewing rum in the fading sunlight–
A whole life
is not ahead anymore-
not with all the unpaved roads
or wild stags standing guard
Not even with music freely spilling
over lush valleys
Half of it is gone
and I am here, waiting
Maybe there’s something big coming
or maybe this is the big moment,
filled with smaller breaths,
where I slip into the small window
of time I’m allowed, grateful

Rail-splitters don’t often get lost
in cyberspace
and when they stroke themselves,
it’s most often to the cadence
of old Chevy turn signals-
you know, the ones on dusty,
almost-forgotten intersections
near stations with the most heartache.

Heavy timber aside,
fatigue (from fresh air)
draws stalwart pickle-eaters
to diners with open-faced sandwiches
and lots and lots of gravy.
Coffee mistaken for counsel,
grumbles covering pride,
old men fighting for place.

No room for an ode
where a limerick may go,
words to such men
are akin to reading a backwards clock,
hoping to predict weather
by counting knee aches and cricket chirps.
They split hours, laughing at young love
keeping their coffee and gravy in place.