Saturday, October 2, 2010

Sweet Old Vintage

Floorboards creaking in an old porch
sound like an omen to these ears
when coupled with the rippling rush of children
laughing as they run towards home,
their feet treading the wind,
pursued by leaves.

I say let the old pines groan,
to hell with wooden prophecies!
They'll support our weight until the spring,
just as the grasping, naked branches of the oaks hold up the sky
when the year grows heavy as a thick warm blanket,
cold as nights without you.

We'll cap our heads with wool, I'll stop your mouth with mine;
we'll bottle up this passing summer like it's wine
so not a single drop escapes us.

Then, love, when the thawing thunderstorms
and bright stars roll back round to us,
we'll wave at them and shout for joy
with hands full of the sweet old vintage,
the only leaves still bright upon the branches!

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