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When We Got Home From Paradise
by
Sara Tolchin |
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On our way home from Paradise
the hills were quiet, they were
standing still, hair combed,
and in their dessicated colors,
the cows were down in the heat,
the creeks dark shadows
and just beyond the bend in the long
shimmering road, Summer was waiting
for her nod, some word, a cue
that things were ready.
When we got home
all the signs were there. The clocks
on fire, the calendar already
counting down from ninety-one,
the ticking in the air,
everything so heavy and so light,
and on the answering machine
the doctor’s voice. We listened twice,
then it was time to feed
the animals, water all the plants
and clean, it seemed imperative
to clean the house as though a stranger
could drop by at any time. That night
we couldn’t lie down, the news
was filling up the bedroom, it was
everywhere, sucking up the air.
Give the doc a call, you said,
as though we could have misconstrued
his words, as though Summer
wouldn’t one day languidly give way to Fall.
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--Submitted by SaraTolchin on 2014-07-30.
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rhonasheridan:
I couldn't quite get the hang of this - but it read with an attractive rhythm
Posted 09/28/2014 10:37 AM
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twomblyd:
Beautifully understated (and thus perfectly stated).
Posted 08/14/2014 01:49 PM
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