The Park
We crawl through tunnels, upturned
picnic tables and green benches: fall chill
in the air, rooftops hazy with wood smoke,
leaves raked into brown piles, crows flying
above treetops, gliding along the bluff's
currents. Freedom--no one speaks
of such a thing in our home, for our wrists
are raw from dirty twine someone left in
the garage long before we moved in,
a tattered ball grabbed from some dusty
corner. Dark and cold, this old house where
he prowls the night, across from silent trees,
the neighborhood devoid of kids' voices.
On hands and knees now, we wander endless
tunnels, keeping our worries hidden from
the maples and their sap seeping into the ground.
Nancy Canyon
Author of SALTWATER
We crawl through tunnels, upturned
picnic tables and green benches: fall chill
in the air, rooftops hazy with wood smoke,
leaves raked into brown piles, crows flying
above treetops, gliding along the bluff's
currents. Freedom--no one speaks
are raw from dirty twine someone left in
the garage long before we moved in,
a tattered ball grabbed from some dusty
corner. Dark and cold, this old house where
he prowls the night, across from silent trees,
the neighborhood devoid of kids' voices.
On hands and knees now, we wander endless
tunnels, keeping our worries hidden from
the maples and their sap seeping into the ground.
Nancy Canyon
Author of SALTWATER
No comments:
Post a Comment