|SMALL TOWN FALL
The sun is hard edged, crisp
and cool as a kiss on the porch
at daybreak. The restless
leaves are crayon smudges,
emerald, sepia, and burnt orange.
visits her son on the plains.
Though her heart of necessity
frets her unsteady body,
it stays upright in the right places.
Her son writes comforting news
for the future when she's gone,
recreating his creator
who declining recreates,
so sweet nothings will continue.
He sees himself as an outlaw
clinking down Main
and into a bar to withdraw,
but comes a freeze, he takes in
geraniums, chives, and basil.
Now starlings have massed in the
and speckled black bodies,
every one of hundreds,
merge with unimaginable
chatter, into a consummate scream.
Everything's a labor of love,
four children and a map drawn up,
a lesson refreshingly taught
and days wasted in thought
like a cat in the sun on the porch.