We sat on the front porch and talked. It was an end-of-summer moment. My friend has just published a new collection of poems, and she's about to set off on a month-long book tour. We talked about my sister, of whom my poet friend was very fond. As darkness took hold, I couldn't even see her face clearly. I could just hear her voice, the slight Southern lilt of her words.
It is the end of summer. After today, autumn starts in earnest. Already the maple leaves are turning orange and yellow on my street. As I left my friend's house last night, she said, "Who knows? By the time I get back in October, there may be snow on the ground."
I have a coming-of-autumn poem for you from Judith Minty, the Poet of the Week. Yes, Judith has been a Poet of the Week before, but I find her work incredibly comforting. She has a clear and beautiful eye for imagery and metaphor. Her Yellow Dog Journal is one of my absolute favorite poetry collections. Today's poem is from Walking the Bear:
The End of Summer
by: Judith Minty
1.
The old bitch labrador swims
in heavy circles. Under water
her legs run free without their limp.
She stretches brown eyes toward me,
snorting, and the stick I throw
stirs gray memories of ten Octobers,
ducks that fly at the sun and fall.
2.
On the Pere Marquette River, salmon
quiver upstream from the lake, return
to alpha. At the dam
they leap and throw themselves
through currents, stretch
and spend themselves
against the torrent from the falls.
3.
All week the sky has filled
with orange petals. Butterflies
floating in cycles toward milkweed,
monarchs freed from the chrysalis,
waiting for the wind's current
to die. The beach
is covered with torn wings.
4.
Fire, off the merganser's hood.
This summer he nested
in our channel, drifted
with the half-time mallards. His sharp bill
stabs water to catch bread I throw.
But he belongs by the sea. I want him
to fly now, before October and guns.
It's a perfect Labor Day poem. For my international readers, in North America, the first Monday in September is designated as a national holiday, in honor of the workers and laborers. It has a rather bloody history, connected to the 1886 Haymarket massacre in which several police officers and civilians were killed at a labor rally in Chicago. These days, Labor Day is about parades and picnics and barbecues and bounce houses in the United States. And it really marks the end of the summer season.
Tomorrow, the kids return to school and the Halloween and Christmas decorations start appearing in Walmart. I must say that I haven't enjoyed the year 2015 very much. I remember my thoughts on the first day of this year. I sat at home, in my dark living room, looking at my Christmas tree glowing in the corner. I looked at my wife and said, "This year has GOT to be better than last year."
I never make statements like that any more. It's like saying, "Well, things couldn't get any worse." Things can always get worse, and they did in 2015. I simply want to coast toward December 31 with little fanfare or upset. That is my goal. Easy, quiet fall. Warm, snowless winter. Then New Year's Eve.
So, this Ives dip Monday, my question is this:
Will the rest of 2015 be quiet and uneventful for me?
And the answer:
These were his happiest years, Ives would think, when the kids were small. He'd walk down Claremont with his hand on his son's shoulder, his other hand gently guiding his daughter along. He would stop on nearly every corner and make sure that the light was green and cross himself quickly as they passed every church, trying to teach the children to do the same . . .
Well, that's a pretty happy response. Ives' happiest years. I could do with a few happy months. No more death. No more ceilings collapsing. No more leaking roofs or exorbitant car repairs. Happiness. Peace.
Saint Marty hopes he can cash that check.
Adventures of STICKMAN
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