Joy from the trees
When I recall the few seasons of gold
The oaks so tall and gusts of warm and cold
Stealing the sheen of sweat from my skin
Like God whispering You may sit again,
I tell myself, brick by brick, stone by stone
That Summer’s swelter should not stick around.
The gnats and no-see-ums, uncut blades of grass
Lows of depressions brought by fiery endless blasts
The light I love. The AM songs. The shoeless walks
On the green lush thickened lawn. And then it stops
And I feel the heat, the overwork, and hear the AC
Calls like the leaves’ crunch underfoot, remembering me
As if they’ve missed my being, in the heat of the sun
And they insist on my sitting with them for a strum.
The few autumns I’ve had, as they lengthen as one,
Won’t brick over the summer labor and fun
But with the gold in the leaves and the gray in my hair
I won’t pluck joy from the trees, it will be falling right there.
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