that time in August…

that time in August…

10450769_10152631768798746_8326396009489492599_nOur oldest’s birthday has always marked the shift in seasons.

The rain comes, as it did yesterday, and then suddenly autumn whispers.

The breeze at the pond is too much for adults to swim, and the boys fall asleep earlier than they have all summer.

My husband and I finish a movie before 10, and after we turn off the tv, we notice light falling across our just finished floors.

Out the kitchen window, we spy the moon, perched between the evergreens–our trees–out our window.

We closed on the house today… and it seems to us that the moon is offering her approval.

Casey steps out on the porch–something he’s always dreamed of–and I join him there to say goodnight to the stars in the silent sky.

Just then, music comes screaming across the pond…

“I believe in miracles, since you came along, you sexy thing, you sexy thing…”

(We built our home on the same dirt road as a summer camp.)

I want to resent this intrusion, this robbery of perfection, but I always liked that song, sang it all the way down to Key West when I was 12.

There’s something funny about disco music playing across from our home in the woods. Serenity and dancing. The sublime and the mundane. It fits our family. Reminding us that miracles abound.

(kelly salasin, 2005)

Death’s Tap

Death’s Tap

Frost makes frozen confection of the lawn

while ice forms– too soon–upon the pond

with angled etchings of  broken twigs,

mirroring the season to come…

Schiele, detail visipix.com

The dock is slippery when I cross

so I proceed with care

as if at a viewing,

of Summer past.

Just as I step down upon the rock

that leads back to the road,

I am tapped on the shoulder

by a hanging branch

dangling,

Death

Kelly Salasin, Late Autumn 2009

Death & Chocolate

Death & Chocolate

Halloween brings thoughts

of decay

and the permission to eat

chocolate.

Neringa ripples toward me

as I approach down the slope

of wet leaves.

Immediately,

I want to consumate our movement–

drink her up,

have her take

me.

Neither will do,

so I continue up the road

on this Hallow’s Eve,

sensing the transparency

of the worlds

in my bones

as the air mysteriously moves

through

me,

mocking the illusion of

separation.

With eyes no longer

drawn up

by Autumn’s fiery reds,

my gaze

sinks

to the earth–

to her rich

colors of

death.

I cross the veil to

the place and beauty

of my own

mother’s

passing

while noticing a half-dozen

trees

missing

from the banks

of the pond–

beavers,

hired

to clear my view.

Turning toward home,

I pass four trunks

huddled together,

branches wrapped around

each other’s

back,

bare–

except for lichen,

a soft, sickly green

creeping up each body,

dangling

from each limb.

On this dark day of souls

I wonder~

Does the ghost of sweet

Jesse

roam

these

hills

like me?

Oct. 31, 2009