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

innocently, innocently...

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

Then October

Then snow.

In winter, the children are gone.

In winter, the arbor holds only

empty vines.

Leo Racicot is an award-winning poet & essayist from Lowell, Massachusetts.