by Leo Racicot
Less clear now the mark
between what is day and what is dark.
Explorations find us at the violet hour
listening to crickets, wisteria, birches
and the voices from windows
throw open to summer.
The plush grass unemcumbers us.
The children spread restless energies.
The aunts tell jokes (a surprise!)
Both Nanas whisper
and two boys kiss but
We spend the remaining light
on the laps of branches,
stoop and play at ideas and games,
let flirty breezes roll over us
like embracing angels.
Bees, plump from summer, feast
at the lilac.
Finches (or what kind of bird is that?)
flap, glint, glimmer.
Moths talk about us amongst themselves.
Shrubs pulsate with hidden chirps
then fade. Dusk fades.
Say that August happened to us
In winter, the children are gone.
In winter, the arbor holds only
Leo Racicot is an award-winning poet & essayist from Lowell, Massachusetts.