Late Summer at Dripping Springs
Late Summer days linger in hazy dreams before the door of Autumn. I find in Dripping Springs an old forgotten rose bush by the white clapboard home, abandoned many, many summers ago.
The rotten bird house still clings to a post at the Pickett cemetery where many children went to dreamin’, laughing and sleepin’ in another place and time.
Wind moves through the dry poke weed, whistling a tune that sounds like flames cracking.
Poke berries, make the prettiest stain…for my aged gingham dress
Deepest magenta, I imagine, will stain my hands
Barn, gone to the trees, sees no one now…not even secret lovers
Hay bales, heavy and sweet smelling, sit fat awaiting the autumn damp and mice.
Summer will leave soon…it will find its way back here again after cold winter moons grow tired.