Table of Contents - Vol. V, No. 2
S. Thomas Summers
The dog will leap her fence, chase a liberty
that zags like a startled rabbit under the skirts
of evergreens. Open windows will invite rain.
Water stains will blossom on the ceiling tiles,
expand above our heads like tarnished halos.
The birdhouse’s soft wood will absorb too
much afternoon, vex the string that bears
its weight. Eggs will crack, abort their hearts.
Sparrows will seek new twig and string.
I’ll forget my name, misplace my voice’s tenor.
Your hair will silver---mine will thin.
On a Sunday morning, you’ll drape my lap
with blue quilt, wheel me beneath the dogwood---
its pink petals slapping the hour like confetti.
You’ll hum a song and I’ll remember it.
Today, I’d like to visit a small book shop.
Its floors should creek beneath my meander---
Auden to Whitman. Steep stairs lead to second floor
shadows and open windows invite scents
of soft rain. Of course, it’s still morning---
a coffee pot snores on the counter.
Stacks of Styrofoam cups ring its pop
and gurgle like the circumference of Stonehenge.
In a brittle chair, I’ll share a cookie with Milton,
a fallen angel, a savior who redeemed us all.
Outside, tulips, laden with mist, will bow bright
heads to pray. A man, wrinkled, whiskered white,
will step into the shop---shelter from a maturing
wind. He’ll trod through an hour behind a hot tea’s
steam, quietly talking with Wordsworth’s lonely cloud.
I’ll offer him my chair and we’ll be friends.
© S. Thomas Summers