Blog Post / Fall 2016 / Issues / Poetry / Poetry 2016 / Volume 47

Summer’s End–Cindy King

Night walks on its hands,
comes juggling bowling balls
and chainsaws. Night arrives
hissing in a skillet,
smelling of beer and catfish,
has yet to meet the box fan
since its argument with wind.
Night comes when we least expect it,
before crickets and sunsets, before
clean plates, before wine. The
lonely dining room table, night,
heavy with a thought pressed
into the mind. A basin
flecked with rust, as if
the stars gave out.

Not yet June and the perennials
have surrendered. The rosebush,
unpruned, lowers its green fists.
There’s still time to paint
behind the stove, to disinfect
the chandelier, still time to buff
winter from the soles of our feet.
Time to grind grain—no,
grow it. Pulverize, proof,
punch down, rise. Still time
to climb the roof, to raise a glass
to the shingled twin of night.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s