One day the air smells cool,
you can feel it
sluicing out the dust of summer,
sounds like falling.
Slow Fox Farm: late afternoon.
A year since I first came here,
raw from our four-day drive,
in a place of wonder and bewilderment.
Everyone seemed to be coming together
and I was wandering loose
inside my cavernous life,
searching for landmarks.
You can stay where you are,
or you can move
as migrants move.
You can walk around
under the weight of living,
the loneliness and doubt:
but one day
the new roads look familiar,
you turn into your driveway
and you’re home.
Through the sugar maples
September light is long and stretches out
to the four corners of the dark.
Today’s poem is from Sara Berkeley’s latest collection, The Last Cold Day, published this month by Gallery Press.
you can feel it
sluicing out the dust of summer,
sounds like falling.
Slow Fox Farm: late afternoon.
A year since I first came here,
raw from our four-day drive,
in a place of wonder and bewilderment.
Everyone seemed to be coming together
and I was wandering loose
inside my cavernous life,
searching for landmarks.
You can stay where you are,
or you can move
as migrants move.
You can walk around
under the weight of living,
the loneliness and doubt:
but one day
the new roads look familiar,
you turn into your driveway
and you’re home.
Through the sugar maples
September light is long and stretches out
to the four corners of the dark.
Today’s poem is from Sara Berkeley’s latest collection, The Last Cold Day, published this month by Gallery Press.
