Walking Home from August

By Renée Fledderman

Before I met September,
Before the freezing rain,
The glass caught in the pavement
Would sing with the morning star.
Sirens strayed the streets.
The breeze caught something golden,
Grass, dried in the summer.
Watching where it drifted,
Cutting through the field,
The West Pike lagged behind,
As I ran through open space.
Suddenly it ended at the winding road,
A boot put there to trip me.
I wandered up that secret,
Past the wooden house.
Then water spoke so quickly
With barely time to answer.
I sat up on that cinder,
Straining yet to listen to the silent creek,
The humming bees,
Followed by the lark that sings,
Which brought its voice to Goshen.
The sun stretched through the yellow lines,
Climbing up the hill.
It ran out past them when I turned to Pheasant lane,
Dripping with its amber rays.
I cam up late to its setting,
Two roads empty, beckoning.
I took one step,
The right foot forward,
And opened my front door.