Gone, those lingering summer days,
the road, still dirt, devoid of cars all afternoon.
If one comes by, we wave,
and they wave back.
Summer evenings fade;
The distant sound of sunset birds
transmutes to twilight frogs,
and supersonic bats flit overhead.
Gone, those ruddy maple afternoons.
Autumn leaves enwreathe the mountains
in their variegated fiery glow,
the nights now growing cold.
Gone, the snow above our ears;
we don’t feel the cold
until bone-chilled we come inside
to huddle round the kitchen Franklin stove.
A storm might rage outside,
but all together reading,
in the hearth a glowing fire—
fairy tales and murder mysteries,
histories, and Charles Dickens—
we are warm.
I left out spring.
They call it mud season.
Still cold from winter,
melting snow and ice turn all
to mud, mud, mud—
and promises of summer.
No more martinis on the porch,
another evening wasted,
contemplating Boynton Hill,
and lilac bushes,
slapping at no-see-ums,
talking politics and books,
watching summer evening die to dusk,
and then to dark.
Dark. The dark so deep
that distant stars descend almost to touch.
About the Poet
Christopher Brooks has been a professional violinist his entire life, grew up in Brooklyn; lived in Spain and the Netherlands, currently lives in Lancaster, PA. His father was a free-lance historian; he grew up in a house filled with books. Rhythm, rhyme, and form are important elements of his work; He tries to avoid the obvious, but rather to entice them out of the material organically.