Changes by Greg Rayborn
We had our first cool morning
a sure sign that this summer,
so filled with loss
will soon faint into fall.
Still green leaves litter the yard,
victims of yesterday’s anger.
Their tired bodies limp
where they lay,
in the too quiet dawn.
The oaken boards hidden beneath the pile groan,
as I pace,
waiting for something.
Maybe, it’s the wind I long for.
Some sign of movement,
I never thought I’d see this boy of summer
so eager to see one go.
The waters heating for my shave.
The first since borrowed roses walked
the too short span
to a smaller grave.
Soon the fading edges of fresh laid sod
and hide the obscenity of their limits.
The hollowness lingers.
How much rain will ease my thirst?
It was a last act of charity,
my uncle feeble and fading appearing
at that sad farewell,
knowing how soon he would follow.
A kindness I cherish now,
as a lone cricket plays taps
somewhere out there
in this stone-still air.