Perfect blue-sky Autumnal days like today make me wish I was back in my childhood neighborhood, and this is especially true after talking with my sister today who happens to be visiting there, and I could almost smell the fall air emanating from the phone. Today’s offering is a taste of growing up on Medina Street, memories of shooting hoops in our quiet street until dusk and breathing in the spores and mulching leaves and the end of summer’s harvest.
Field Burning, Fall
I wandered home at the witching hour
winding the darkest semi-circular path
waiting for the wind and wax
to melt the color from the carved fruits,
and watch their faces dim into the darkness
of a starless fall night.
No sun or sounds or thoughts or time,
nothing walked beside me but too cool air
and the smell of seasons lifted from leaf piles,
crisping my nose with mulch spores that denote
confidence in efficiency. That spare is sublime.
For what I came to see, I was too late.
Spirited youths prowled as wolves,
harvested the crop of full moon faces
from the porches and front doors of this neighborhood.
Along my path their pieces lay
orange pulp chewed by gravel teeth,
sat softening in the damp street,
their innards melting into Thanksgiving pie.
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