The weather in Seattle has been warm and sunny, and I've been enjoying my time on a nearby island called Bainbridge. The wind is low, but with that stillness comes a restlessness. It feels time to bring out a poem written some years ago on a day like this one, on this same island; although, then, the fall and its delights were closing in. So now is the time to unfold and float that day up like a blanket settling onto the grass, and remember countless summers of dreaming and waking into voluminous air.
The First Day of the Fall
Soon the leaves
will release and reveal
the limbs beneath.
Pressed together on the
ground they will lie
until a gentle stirring
brings up their sweetness
into the nostrils,
the mouth,
if I walk close enough
to the ground.
Yet this day,
unabashed,
unabashed,
believes it summer still.
And still the trees
that brace the walk
that brace the walk
thrust their limbs higher
into the shimmer,
beckoning clouds
to hover and pour
non interruptus.
So hot today that
crane flies beat
at the glass to get out.
Yet during the night
I chased them
along the ceiling.
They, mounted on air,
sweeping in circles,
confused by lights
and heat from lamps,
eluded me,
so badly they wanted
to stay in.
So hot today that
neither clothes
nor hands to touch
are welcome.
Only thoughts
are wanted
are wanted
to come across me
in waves of mist,
only thoughts
may glide over
the iliac crest
the floating rib
the sternum
as I take myself
to enter a boat,
swinging my leg
over the protruding bow
to fall and lie
pressed to the bottom
and rock in silence
as far out as it floats
until I can bear
my flesh again
-- 2011
© copyright 2015 by Gilded Lily Press
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