The Dogwood blushes,
October-demure,
Each leaf hued with three seasons complete.
Maid of Honor,
Shy witness to this moment of
Man’s courage,
Woman’s love,
Uttered in the dusk
Beneath her apple-cheeked curtsey:
He kneels;
She gasps.
You! Me? Yes? Yes!
And all the tale is told.
~
With love to Adrienne and Eliot on their engagement.
Grass on my sandals!
The joy of field grass,
Fine, hay-colored playing-field grass
That seemed like a life I’d left behind,
But, oh, I didn’t!
Papery-brittle, inch-long,
Parched and airy, yet
Clinging strong to my shoes at the rugby pitch
While I fill water bottles
And attempt pictures of the ruck
And lend ice packs, not for drinks
But for knees –
Every team, heaven help them,
Needs a mom.
Clapping at the tackle, then realizing
Play doesn’t stop at the tackle. Oh.
Odd, that.
Humid rain soup and metal bleachers.
A fan section of six – us –
Buzzed with the Saturday urgency of other games
To keep up with too,
And the countering feel of solid solemnity,
Sabbath coming,
But sweet lull right now in the hay-colored air.
We’ll take home half the field
On our shoes.
September is field grass.
~
The Pen of a Ready Writer 