“Old Man River”

There are days when the Ohio River
is like the mythical lazy Old Man,

his face wrinkled with fallen leaves,

bearded with summer moss.

There are days his soul is stained

with rotting driftwood, snaking scum
and now and then a human lump,
a victim of his sudden rages.

But there are days, like today,
when I can almost hear Mark Twain
tell a story in his slow Missourian drawl,
and smell the smoke from his cigar,
and see Huck and Jim skimming by
on a runaway raft,

when I can almost hear a calliope blow
as we hurry to the shore to greet
the big white showboat – and the Old Man
looks up with benevolent approval.

By Lisa Lindsey

Four Chairs

Summer came

with four rocking chairs

strategically arranged

on the front porch where

floorboards creaked

through muggy afternoons,

and wisdom poured

over jugs of warm beer

as the lazy back-and-forth of talk

spiraled into religious debates

and arguments about politics,

and the latest wars

came to a peaceful end

and all the world’s problems

were solved.

It was Four Chairs in action,

rocking and creaking

and speaking eternal truths,

occasionally interrupted by

the blare of a passing lawn mower,

or a trip to the kitchen

for another jug of beer.

By Lisa Lindsey

Just June
 
Before I knew of poetry and us
there was you and me
and June --- just June,

and the joys of the patio grill

and the freshly cut lawn,
tossing the Frisbee,
dozing in the hammock,

no forgotten anniversaries
or slamming doors,
no apologies, no silence
on the telephone,

just the hum of rum
and tropical edibles
discovering the icy bliss
of our blender and idle chat

and aimless love
and should we demand
any more of summer?
 
By Lisa Lindsey

Periwinkle

This morning as the first of June

smiled through my window,

I started to write a poem about the sky,

a sky perfectly described as Periwinkle,

a pale purplish-blue like the flower of its name.

But Periwinkle rhymes with wrinkle

and crinkle --- and who am I

to sprinkle creases in so smooth a suit?

So with a few magic pen strokes
I tapped the sky into blueberry.

Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
and azure was tattered from overuse.

Finally I changed the hue to plain blue,
puffing it up with an ivory cloud or two.

A pathetic rhyme for a morning sky

that deserved to be periwinkle.

By Lisa Lindsey

Red Canoes

there are no abandoned red canoes
gliding aimlessly over lakes

of the bluest of blue waters

no white swim caps bobbing
the bluest of blue waves

no rose blooms buttoning
the seams of summer pathways

no windflowers brightening
the clefts of sunwarmed rock

no pine trees piping almost sadly
songs of mountain memories

no harmonica piercing the air
cool from evening storms

no lakes of blue, no red canoes
not this summer, not now
that she is gone.

By Lisa Lindsey

The Perfect Day

Sun-splashed mornings
with an over-easy book.

Drowsy afternoons
and unwashed teacups.

Dinner reservations

and a fortune cookie for two.

A midnight swim

by the blush of the June moon

By Lisa Lindsey

Honey and Salt

I have fallen in love again.
It happened yesterday
at the college library
where Abbot and Alcott
and Anderson followed me
down sweet-scented aisles
of leather book bindings.

When I got to the esses
I looked for him in vain,
but across the room on a table
of scattered paperbacks,
ragged and free for the taking
he called to me--Carl Sandburg
and his "Honey and Salt,"
111 pages tanned with age,
77 poems of moonlight, roses and groceries.

So I walked him home,
the tiny book clasped to my heart,
grinning like a June schoolgirl,
feeling the way I did then
when the sun turned my hair
from dull brown to honey,
when there was a skip to my step
and a love song in my eyes.

I smiled knowing I would have
someone to curl up with this summer.

By Lisa Lindsey

Soft as the murmuring breeze

Green
as the sassafras
of an Appalachian summer

Soft
as the murmuring breeze
through Carolina pines

Light
as water notes skipping
over river rocks

Sweet
as honeysuckle mornings
and forest-scented nights

She
is a sylvan dream,
hair wind-brushed,
dandelion wreathed,
her face freshened by
mountain sun
and a smile of sixteen,
unkissed until she whispers his name,
soft as the murmuring breeze.

By Lisa Lindsey

A June So Rare

What is so rare as a day in June

that poets keep its beauty

bound in unruffled pages?

Children scatter it around,

blowing it here and there,

like dandelions and fluffy wishes,

rainbow bubbles and soapy giggles.

June in their hair.

By Lisa Lindsey

Elusive Skies of Cotton

These are the fair-weather clouds

you are supposed to gaze at

from the yard on a summer day,

as I did today while hanging the laundry,

cotton clouds that assume a variety

of forms, like so many clothes

blown free from their clotheslines,

an empyreal fashion show.

I saw my father's white shirt flying by,

badly in need of ironing,

piggybacked by a girl's puffy dress

with a stain of strawberry ice cream.

Mother’s apron made a brief appearance

before it bumped into a pair of long johns

and ballooned into a maternity smock.

Fanning diapers came trailing.

Finally, and just in time for my nap,

arose a massive bed sheet full of holes,

followed by a wisp of a nightgown

pulling a drowsy pillow.

There were more clouds of cotton

capering with the others, but too elusive

to morph into anything recognizable...

sort of like clothes that tumble in the dryer.

By Lisa Lindsey

Storybook Summer

She's the pretty cousin with freckles
who comes to visit every summer,

who unpacks her things upstairs
while we wait for her to appear
in her fluttering dress and straw hat
shading bouncy copper curls.

She brings her Pollyanna optimism
and the wide-eyed innocence
of a Becky Thatcher, hankering
for adventure beyond the garden gate,

or she baskets her charms like

Lady Guinevere, beckoning along

gossamer paths where wending breezes
comb the coats of willows haunted.

Today she is Anne of the Island,
reading her book on the beach
as seagulls punctuate the page turning.

Her imagination hoists my own,
high as the cliffs of red sandstone,
chapter after chapter. . .

By Lisa Lindsey

Jen at Thirty-Seven

Was it just yesterday that you played

in your strained fruits and mashed veggies,

smearing carrots and applesauce in your hair?

Speaking of hair --- whatever happened

to those crooked bangs between the white

lace communion veil and Raphaelean stare?

Your eyes are green as ever, and they still

light up when we order a pepperoni pizza.

Yes, your smile still rivals the Mona Lisa’s.

Don’t worry about those punctuation marks

around your lips. They’re just middle-aged dimples.

Remember when you whined about pimples?

Now a mother with teenagers of your own,

I look upon you with a kind of clumsy veneration.

Suddenly you’re a member of MY generation.

Naturally there are some things that never change,

such as your love of birthday parties and the fact that,

even as you turn thirty-seven, you are still my baby.

By Lisa Lindsey

Pickled Tink

I turned a shade

of pickled tink

I mean, a shade

of tickled pink

when I saw

the doctor wink.

It's a girl!

Time to rethink

the nursery.

By Lisa Lindsey

Blue-Eyed Boy

You will always be my blue-eyed boy,
my gentle pyromaniac,

sneaking into the apple orchard
of the Franciscan home for the wayward,
breaking curfew, lighting matches
under the apple tree with our names
scratched in the trunk heart.

I took your matches away.
We shared an apple and locked gazes,
my hazels to your baby blues,
our arms dangling aimlessly,
not knowing what to do with our feelings

until a brown-robed shadow
tore itself loose from a woodshed.
Your eyes swelled into pools,
lamenting the flagellation to come
and the goodbye kiss I flung to the wind.

There were other blue-eyed boys
and other green apple summers,
but none as sweet or sour or easily bruised.

By Lisa Lindsey

June is a Comedy

What is so playful as a dayful of June

as so natural as buffoonery?
Tossing my senses to the solstice

I submit to full-moonery.

A Midsummer Night's Dream

courses through my veins

and I snicker at Robin Goodfellow

piping merry wanderers to harm's way.

June, you flood me still with mirth!

I drink in your sweet honeysuckle

and sylvan breezes. I sway

to your strings and tamboureezes.

I put on my donkey ears

and ponder Shakespeare's plotless tale

and feel wonder and peace.

Yes, what fools we mortals be!

By Lisa Lindsey

Poetry and Summer

Poetry walks on water
with unshod feet,
testing the temperature
of silky metaphors.

Reality prefers to sit by the pool,
admiring her tanned legs
and red toenail polish.

Poetry melts the sun
like lemon drops into hair,
pours the blue sky
into two cups of eyes.

Reality's eyes are hazel
behind dark sunglasses,
her hair frizzy from the humidity.

Taste of Summer

Look at that girl over there,
the little one with curly brown hair
chasing after the ice cream truck.
She used to be me or was I her?

She still craves a double-dip cherry cordial,
but only has enough quarters
for a double-stick cherry Popsicle,
the kind that splits evenly down the middle.

Wanna share?

By Lisa Lindsey

Sister Golden Hair

At home the oldies station plays

all day long, providing musical stimuli

for finishing the household chores,

but then I hear a song or two

that makes me drop what I’m doing,

beckoning me to a distant place,

down that long and winding road

that leads to your door

and there you are ---

Sister Golden Hair surprise,

wearing the same peasant dress

I wore the summer before,

and a brand new smile.

You say summer is wasted indoors

and a day at the park would be nice.

So I turn off the radio,

release the house of its chores

and walk out, holding your hand,

squinting into the marmalade skies.

By Lisa Lindsey

Coconuts

The whole beach exhaled coconuts.

He realized later it was her tanning lotion,

after she let him get close enough.

When they weren't swimming

they dangled their sun-ripened toes

over the pier, counted her freckles,

admired his muscles

and wondered if love would survive

the blitz of September, when sexy

swimwear surrendered to cashmere.

It didn't... but he still gets a taste

for coconuts on a sweaty day late June.

By Lisa Lindsey

Night Swim

My next door neighbor

has a round swimming pool

that glows in the dark.

Though I’ve never been

Invited down for a swim,

I have a friendly view

from my back porch

and a deep imagination.

And many a night

I am long afloat watching

that big blue bowl of light

cast wave shadows on the trees.

Many a night

does its water music lull me to sleep

in the big white lap

of a worn wicker chair.

By Lisa Lindsey

Moon Songs and Paper Lanterns

It’s the last day of June and summer beckons.
I promise myself more leafy afternoons
on a lawn chair, a bottle of sunscreen
in one hand and a flyswatter in the other.

I’m ready for family barbecues and long drives

in the country, leisurely strolls by the lake,

stocking my kitchen with weekly supplies

from the farmer’s market: ripe red tomatoes,
peaches sweet as sugar, fresh corn on the cob
and a pint of homemade orange sherbet.

I hope to buy a swing for the front porch
so my sister and I can rock back and forth,
fanning our misty faces like Southern belles,
all breezy and full of iced tea,

talking over our girlhood summers,
the Coney Island waterslides and lazy canoe rides
that drifted us to shores dusted in twilight,

just in time for the fireworks show,
for the glow of those Japanese paper lanterns
draped from the sky as we cuddled
with our dates and sang songs to the moon.

But today I think I'll stay inside
my refrigerated house, feeling thankful
for air conditioners and ceiling fans,
June memories and July plans,
and a bowl of orange sherbet at arm’s reach.

By Lisa Lindsey

Mandolin Girl

Once at a bluegrass festival

I saw a girl with light brown freckles

sprinkled across a beautiful alabaster face,

whose pale-yellow hair matched the color

of the flowers on her dress,

and with fairylike fingers

she plucked a pear-shaped guitar

with a melancholy cry that made me cry

and I asked her if it was a mandolin,

and she looked up at me with eyes

clear and blue as the summer wind,

smiled, and played it again.

By Lisa Lindsey

Philips Street

Window fans keep humming summer.
July shouts with bleach-haired boys
pouring into the street to fight the heat
with squirt guns and water balloons.

I love the afternoon laze, rocking

the glider, watching the lunch parade:

hotdogs strolling, hamburgers on the run,

funnels of ice cream chasing the sun.

Night brings its storm of patriotic colors.
Fireworks rain over rooftops and trees.
Freedom thunders in my eardrums.
Old Glory flaps on a gun-powdered breeze.

There’s a celebration on Philip’s Street,
especially when Philip comes home
for the holiday --- until I land in his arms
I let summer embrace me.

By Lisa Lindsey

Pool Safety

All life jackets were abandoned

when the lifeguard -- golden haired

and glistening, his biceps rippling like

the sunkissed waters of the pool -- arrived.

Aphrodites in bikinis trickled

from the high springboard, ribbons

of rainbows making a showy splash,

while lesser Olympians dog-paddled

and backstroked their way to feigned distress,

perhaps their last chance to be rescued

before summer slipped away like

the chlorinated liquid through their fingers.

Bathing beauties of old, Bertha and Maud,

sat poolside and watched, soothing

their swollen ankles in the cool blue water,

drenched in memories of summers long ago

and far away -- that daring swan-dive off the cliffs

of La Quebrada that never quite happened,

or of that day at a swimming pool outside

Acapulco, regarding a couple of lost life jackets

and a beefy lifeguard named Carlos.

By Lisa Lindsey

Coney Island of the West

Let me tell you about a place

where the sun reflects off every smile,

where the air is ripe with magic

and pink cotton candy,

where calliopes warble all day,

and the landscaped is arrayed in

peanut shells, flattened popcorn bags

and trampled ticket stubs,

where Ferris wheels tickle the sky,

and funhouses gyrate the floor,

until the Island Queen gathers all aboard

the moon deck for an evening float,

and if breezes are mellow

and the stars bright,

and the girl you cuddle is primed

with enough strawberry soda,

first kisses are kissed,

marriages are proposed,

and if the one you’re with

doesn’t curl your toes

you can always lean on the rail

of the deck and watch the lights

of the city drift upstream.

By Lisa Lindsey

Ladies Swimwear: A Brief History

We went from cover-all bodice

and billowing bloomers, modest

but not very water friendly,

to the shapeless tank suit

and leggy hemline. Grab

a beach ball and strike a pose!

Then came the tummy-hugging

corset, ideal for swimming

and better still for sun bathing,

followed by the two-piece shocker

my cousin Peggy wore, skirted

to hide those fleshy thighs.

Next was the teeny-weeny bikini

I never-ever wore, even when I

was sylphlike and consistently tan.

Today they have nude beaches

somewhere out there ---

probably where nobody

remembers the white derriere

of the Coppertone Girl.

By Lisa Lindsey

Retro Beach

I am always a child at the beach,
chubby and red cheeked,
zigzagging along the ocean’s rim,
daring the foam to catch me,

and my father is always there
chin deep in a wave, spraying water
through his lips, a bronzed whale
waving me in, lifting me high,

while mother sits under a sunhat
with a book she isn't reading,
squinty eyed and smiling nervously
at a low gliding seagull,

until we all dissolve into the grainy
texture of an old home movie,
soundless, but for the whirr
of the running projector.

By Lisa Lindsey

Pinwheels

I stand next to your grave
and the buzz of the pinwheel.
Happy birthday to you. . .

A stray balloon and wind-tossed flag
awakens past Julys with sisters
always waiting for nightfall,
for fireflies and fireworks to flare.

But night seems such a long way off
and I think how, in this mournful place,
the sun never sets on our visits.

One blue sky begets another
and another. In this blueness
I sense the best is gone.
That's what the skyline says. . .

When She Writes...

we can go summering by the willows,

where whispers find sanctuary

in copper ringlets of hair

we can cross the bridges of history,

share a carriage with Keats and Fanny

through an English countryside

or we can comb the California beaches

at sunrise, watch a pearlescent sky

brush the plumage of seabirds

we can hopscotch back to a ponytail July,

the days of chalk and Chatty Cathy,

double scoops of chocolate ice cream

we can cherish the pot roast Sundays,

the room painted blue, the metal lunchbox

with a stick of gum for you-know-who

we can turn the page of a heart,

bookmark a soul, linger in the life of a daughter,

a sister, a wife, a mother, a poet, a friend..

we can even go summering by the willows,

where whispers find sanctuary

in copper ringlets of hair.

By Lisa Lindsey

Her Redbrick World

Beneath a pile of huddled rooftops
where grandmother lived
in her frumpy dress
and we visited on Saturdays. . .

Coca Cola signs trimmed the windows
of the many redbrick storefronts,

men, with no place else to go,
congregated on tenement stoops
to escape the heat and talk baseball,

children swung on the iron gates
that divided the streets from yards
the size of postage stamps,

while four stories overhead
a diaper hung from a fire escape,
waiting for a rare breeze,

making me feel nostalgic
for the diapers fanning
from clotheslines back home,

those happy white sails
that knew boundless blue sky
and breakers of clouds.

By Lisa Lindsey

Flying Free

July 1970

was fondly overpopulated
with breezy little backyards

strung with clotheslines,

parading a love story

in the shirts to be starched

and diapers to be folded,

the bell-bottomed jeans

of washed-out blue,

the potpourri of pajamas

and one size 8 peasant dress,

fashionably tie-dyed,

sun dried and wind freshened

like my hair on your shoulders,
flying free, like our love that summer.

By Lisa Lindsey

That Summer ---

when Mt. Echo Park gathered us into its bosom

like a grandmother at a family reunion,

when the air was potent with potato salad,

spilt beer, and Aunt Ivy’s cheap perfume,

when amorous young couples slipped away

from the crowds and into the coziest

shelter house and when you and I, likeminded,
climbed the hill to Lovers Lookout ---

we barely noticed the view,
or the elderly couple two benches away,
probably dreaming of “that summer”
when the future spread before them
like the peace of the river valley below.

But this summer --- today --- right now
as I am writing this --- another couple
is gazing out from the same hilltop,
seeing something no one will see but them,

another family will find a colossal shade tree,
a playground with swings and enough hands
to shoo the flies off the prized potato salad,
thus adding another dimension to this love story of ours.

By Lisa Lindsey

Arctic Thoughts

I languish through July

like a castaway penguin,

far from her aquatic home

and floating iceberg,

dragging my feet along

sun-scorched sidewalks,

unable to breathe, sick to death

of choking on my own sweat.

But as soon as I get home

I’ll peel off my clothes

and perch my soggy self

on a chair by the refrigerator,

whisper I-love-you to the frozen yogurt,

rub noses with the Eskimo Pie.

I’ll dream of the blizzard to come ---

the subzero, bone-chilling days of January

when I promise I'll not complain!

By Lisa Lindsey

Heartland, 1972

Happiness was a two-lane highway,
silent miles of dusty back road
margined with blue sky and corn rows,

relief at a filling station, a full tank,

a whiff of gasoline, a quarter

for the bottle soda pop machine,

the surprise wayside diner
with its booth of torn upholstery,
tangy burgers, fries drowned in grease,

thumbing a ride when the sedan died
and never having sore feet because
we wore our boots all summer long

and the next hippie campground
was just around the bend.

By Lisa Lindsey

Last of the Giants

At one time there were eighty of them—

eighty giants flanking Elm Street.

And when the last Elm fell
it fell despite the protests of tree huggers,
the love circle of locked hands

and the “Save Our Elm” signs.

It fell as traffic stopped and the curious gawked,

as fools cheered and children leaned

on their parents and old people wept softly.

It fell in big green umbrellas—

rainstorms of leaves

and the feathers of many songbirds.

It fell with Pollyanna summers

and the chirp of carriage wheels

along shaded sidewalks,

with the cool of an autumn stroll

through tunnels of golden boughs.

It fell hard as all giants fall—

limb by limb, a kindling for poetry

and ever taller legends.

By Lisa Lindsey

August Melancholy

August came with a sudden haze

of melancholy. We still ran barefooted

along warm summer sidewalks,

but always with the knowledge
that Labor Day lurked at our heels,

signaling the last of the lemonade stands
and lime Popsicles, the tire swing
creaking through windless hours.

It came with a rush of sunset and flash

of street lights, shadows caught in a blink,
a mother dragging us home by the arm.

By Lisa Lindsey

Fireflies

Flash on, fireflies,

tiny winged stars

doing your twilight dance,

before vanishing summer

and childhood fancy forgets you.

We couldn't wait to chase you

from your curtain of soft ferns

and blowing grass,

carry you home in a jar,

its lid punched full of holes

to let in the night air.

Winkin and Blinkin we named you --

like the flicker of fairy eyes

better off in the woods

with the crickets

and crescent moon glow,

where your laser show

and ghostly flight

remained a mystery.

Flash on --

before vanishing summer

and childhood fancy forgets you.

By Lisa Lindsey

The Cure

Day after day he returned,
the one-legged sandpiper
who flirted with the ocean's edge,

tapping the surface, leaving

his single trail of dots in the sand.

Day after day I watched him
out-hopping waves that lunged
and dodging two-legged rivals
of feather and flesh,

surviving on overlooked scraps,
competing with his disadvantage
and never looking back.

This dreary island had forgotten
my purpose for being.
My intent to cure a broken heart
from a failed romance
had grown pale in the face
of the crippled bird's plight,
but each day the sea became bluer
and so did the sky.

By Lisa Lindsey

Early Riser

Her footprints spread in morning sun,
beautiful bare soles left in the sand,
long delicate toes, narrow arch,
graceful heel and a dancing gait.

I imagine her smiling,
a slim and singing copper girl.
She is tall like I was once,
and her eyes are sea green.
But I return to her feet. . .

Her pattern is predictable, her stride

full of purpose, combing for shells

of rainbow colors, fan shaped and fluted,

stuffing her pockets, stopping

for sand dollars, wishing for pearls.

She is a treasure hunter, an early riser,
and I am a scavenger, picking the ruins

of her spoils. We've become friends

in such a very short time.

By Lisa Lindsey

South Padre Island

I hear you, Padre Island,
over the rumble of bulldozers
and the disturbance of architecture,

before high-rise living ravaged
your clear voice. . .

I hear you in the whoosh of Gulf winds

and the tumble of crystal blue waves,

where Mexican fishermen tell stories

in pretty tongues, and beneath the palapa
a guitar strums softly.

I hear you in the laughing boy

running through sunsets of seamless orange,
his three-legged dog keeping pace.

I hear you, Padre Island,

in all your happiness and tears.
Your ghost is dreaming in my ear.

By Lisa Lindsey

Sunset at Lake Lorelei

The last pink ribbon

of daylight slips behind the lake

and a string of red canoes

reflecting like rose petals

on water, tugging me gently

into a twilight by Monet.

By Lisa Lindsey

See You in September

I'll see you in September

lugging my suitcase of summer leftovers:

the lingering fragrance

of coconut tanning lotion,

easy-to-kick-off shoes,

a handy sarong for strolling beaches

almost deserted, photographs

of flaming tropical sunsets,

little brightly colored umbrellas

from the pina coladas served

at a certain beachside table for two,

an almost empty tube of Chapstick

for the lips that can still taste the goodbye kiss

of the best summer romance ever.

Bye bye, so long, farewell.

By Lisa Lindsey

Wasting Stars

I unravel myself from bed sheets
and creep outside, a turtle
taking a vacation from its shell,

only to stand on the lawn
at midnight, an accidental insomniac,
a lizard in a nightgown.

If I were younger I might watch
the newlyweds in the orange window
next door, sigh heavily

as two silhouettes meld into one
before they pull the shade
and the house goes dark suddenly.

If I were a poet I might rush back
to my room and write about how the stars

looked like celestial chips of ice,

how the sky at two in the morning

appears more sapphire than indigo
but I am neither young nor a poet,

just an animal with wrinkled skin
who can't sleep on a clear summer night,
wasting stars.

By Lisa Lindsey

Church of No Streetlights

I return to the Church of No Streetlights,

a back porch cathedral at midnight

where the posture of worship is standing

statue-like, my gaze lifted skyward.

I reserve a spot at the celestial banquet,

let my eyes drink a chalice of stars,

as Orion draws his bow through

flickering pines, and Sirius laps rivers

of wine spilled from diamond fountains.

To move might ruffle the calm surface

of darkness, disturb the choir of crickets.

I might lose my place connecting the

crown of stars on the King of Heaven.

So I stand very still, occupying my church

of thought, savoring this communion

while Cincinnati sleeps.

By Lisa Lindsey

Ohio Heat

Wing me to Tennessee
where I can climb a mountain
higher than the humidity,

or blow me to Florida where
hurricanes can drown my misery,

or drive me to Indiana
where droopy roadside flowers
can charm away the sweat,

or leave me to die in Ohio,
fanning myself by the window unit,

or shoot me back to an imaginary place,

one of those Tom-and-Huckleberry summers

from the novels of my childhood,

a mosey down to the swimming hole
in a haze of happily-ever-after heat.

By Lisa Lindsey

Cumulonimbus

The sky was morning glory blue,

spotted with the puffy white

cotton clouds that come out to play

on a fair summer day,

just the usual pillows of clouds

that fancy changing their forms,

or serve as bumpers for bouncy cherubs.

And yet looming on the horizon

was a cumulonimbus --- a weather Atlas

shouldering the weight of the whole afternoon

while the sun, looking tired, rode piggyback.

Now who had the time or presence of mind

to watch those other clouds flaunting

their shape-shifting talents

when the Rodinesque cloud

had the smell of rain

and an early autumn on its breath?

By Lisa Lindsey

EVE OF ST. GILES

August 31, nightfall

I bid you farewell, August,

as your melancholy twilight

catches me unaware,

as a cool breeze tickles

the windchimes and suddenly

I feel the shoulder-tap of autumn.

A leaf somersaults in midair,

fireflies play leap-frog

across a Saint Giles moon,

all mindless of August and me,

our complacency fading

with the song of the loon

and the last embers of summer.

I blow you a kiss, August,

hoping next year we meet again.

I embrace September,

ponder October, and pray

November will be kind.

By Lisa Lindsey