These scattered prairie clouds—
Such blush! Oh, the pink
Brightening of autumn, drought-
Dusted leaves muddy with September
Rain. Do you remember the rain?
It pours sometimes, doesn’t it—
Always in the past. Always in
Some brighter moment which is
Not now—I’ve heard you grumble!
Look. The greening pastures
Engorged with sweetness. Look.
The final blue moon—that is, until
The next blue moon. Or the super moon.
Distractions to occupy an evening.
Look! The leaping brook was a trickle
But now it leaps once more, decorated
With opalescent minnows and goldenrod
Pollen. Where does it go, oxbowed
Narration, those long-winding stories
We all adore. And when, reflecting,
We see our own faces in the pink-
Clouded water, we recite: “Yes! I
Remember that day. I do! Five years
Ago like yesterday—but I can’t precisely
Recall what we said, or what she was
Wearing. If I could go back I’d breathe so
Deeply, inhaling all of autumn, never
Displacing a cinnamon fleck of her hazel eyes.”