ONE INDIAN SUMMER


The sun came out and stilled
everything for a moment:
The grasses stopped fading,
the daffodils stopped drooping,
the leaves stopped falling.
It was chilly, even with
a sweatshirt on. I sat outside,
my feet swinging over the edge
of that rusty red wagon,
and closed my eyes.
The sun lathered warmth
all over my face.

The clouds would
stretch or fatten their bodies;
I’d have to guess
what they were before
they changed again.
Sometimes I couldn’t wait
and peeked through my hands.
They stopped when they knew
I was watching them undress
into something else.
But I couldn’t help it.
They were so voluptuous.