Thursday, September 13, 2018

September 13: Diane Glancy, "Indian Summer," Warm-to-Hot

Indian Summer

by:  Diane Glancy

There’s a farm auction up the road.
Wind has its bid in for the leaves.
Already bugs flurry the headlights
between cornfields at night.
If this world were permanent,
I could dance full as the squaw dress
on the clothesline.
I would not see winter
in the square of white yard-light on the wall.
But something tugs at me.
The world is at a loss and I am part of it
migrating daily.
Everything is up for grabs
like a box of farm tools broken open.
I hear the spirits often in the garden
and along the shore of corn.
I know this place is not mine.
I hear them up the road again.
This world is a horizon, an open sea.
Behind the house, the white iceberg of the barn.

__________________________

It has been a beautiful week in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  It doesn't feel like mid-September.  More like mid-August.  Yes, the leaves are changing color, but the air is warm-to-hot, and the sun has been holding on in the sky until close to 9 p.m.

It's difficult to let go of summer.  This week is making it even more difficult. 

Saint Marty is going for a walk now.

From my backyard

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