Mobiles

The silver threads that
tie my yard together
have turned into nets,
catching golden leaves as
they fall, turning
them into
mobiles, spinning and
dancing
in the sun.

Barefoot Prophet

The barefoot prophet by James Vanderzee

This card has been
with me for
years. Decades.

The prophet’s feet bare
and straight.
Born into slavery, he
lived to be free. Walking
with his tambourine,
shouting the message of
an indwelling God.

Summer Returned

Yesterday the cool temperatures
left, sending the
damp heat back to us.

Breathing

Today the air was breathable,
although damp and heavy with
mold spoors.
Ragweed was low. It is
never easy to breath here in
the smog of too
many cars.

The Table

Sitting across the
table, he talked about
his gout and the
doctor visit. He
fiddled with the small
battery, fitting
it into the key,
hoping to ride the motorcycle
tomorrow.

End of Summer

The cicadas sing the
end of summer,
the start of fall, leaves
raining down. The sun
creeping across the solarium
floor as it falls lower
in the sky.

Last Poem

Writing a last
poem.
Cool air. Golden
leaves. A cup of tea,
August almost over.