Late summer feels like late in life
when earth puts on a play about my youth.
We built the house that made us man and wife.
I play a ghost: a haze of August sunsets rife
with mottled pigments pantomiming truth.
Late summer feels like late in life
before the nimbus frost makes saints of white-
haired lovers. Forty years of afterglow imbrue
a scrim of sheets that made us man and wife.
Old men like me try not to dream, to start the strife
Joel prophesied. Let younger men envision youth.
Late summer feels like late in life
when histrionic children play my prime and I,
whom none consults, will build no ticket booth
against the house that made us man and wife.
She hugs me tight. Old age, a patient knife,
has cut youth’s cast from those concealed from youth:
late summer’s bright ablation. Late in life
we build the house that made us man and wife.
A read write poem. The portion of Joel’s prophecy alluded to is here and here.
Posted August 26, 2009.
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