John Muro

Awaiting Autumn

Even on the best of days, I confess
to a want to hurry summer towards
its end, and welcome the lessening
of sun and indolent mornings that
open into the luminous down of blue
afternoons, and take in the descent
of bereaving mists that drift over
hills of hard-woods thru gaunt groves
of birch and fern then hauntingly
linger within a split-rail expanse
of pasture, and what little is left of
leaves hang like bandages clotted
by the dried blood of autumn.
But that season of grief and going
remains a life-time distant, tucked
beneath the crawl-spaces of these
encrusted cottages that are slowly
sinking into the strand, or loosely
cradled somewhere beyond the fetid
plunder of salt-marsh framed by the
sash of a double-hung window,
cracked glass adorned with chapped
paint and spittle, leaning away from
land, panes open to the undulations
of petitioning surf, gull-squabbling
skies and the ruffling of laundry
strung across yards like nautical
flags signaling our meek surrender.

~
First published in Barnstorm Journal, Volume 13, 2021-2022