On The Porch Between Frost & Fall

The cabin holds its breath between one last warmth

and the first clean cut of cold.

Curtains shiver like a throat just before a word

too often left unsaid.

Outside, the maple reaches out once more

combing for the last handful of light

each leaf balancing for surrender,

each landing a quiet apology.

My chest fogs when I speak

and so,

a breeze nestles against my neck.

My skin bristles at the hush,

"Goosebumps?" I query -

like I had never been touched.

The rocking chair drew in its breath

like a lawyer with an unheard argument.

Speckled white paint lifted up off the wood

and fell every few days or so

like sand had never counted the hour.

Somewhere close, the trickling brook I love so much

resides beneath herself

content for the oncoming night

and enfolds her voice

slowly,

so slowly.

She pulls the covers across her skin

even if the brittle grass close by

protests by shimmering along with the leaves

like they had never been green.

The loose hair upon my shoulder, the dried crust by my mouth

grew lighter

just as maybe my wife would have

if I had been stubborn and she had been mad

all those years ago.

She would have sat

quietly,

so quietly.

"Lucille?" I quander -

like I had never lost her.

How cruel, the burn in my throat

and the trace of rime -

which is all I have left

to hold my eye, to caress my cheek

to glint the white light

of a waning day's breath.

Up here on this porch

the cabin settles behind me,

like the marrow would never grow cold.

Between frost, fall, and the time to;

gently,

so gently,

finally

sleep.

...

Notes:

• ‘Quander’ is a word I stretched from ‘quandary’ — meaning to linger in longing, somewhere between questioning and remembering.
• A portion of my proceeds from this poem will go toward combating loneliness among older adults...because sometimes the smallest conversations can thaw into the warmest rooms. This includes earnings from readings or any potential competitive earnings.