A war hero’s birthday party,
the smell of a farm
wafting in the air,
our junk spread out on
a park bench,
September pinches a
baby’s tender cheeks —
The pages of a book are
a comfort to the eyes
and fingertips,
while screens proceed to
get more and more venomous.
Saturday sun —
I am accustomed to being
alone in a crowd, in
a sweet September
augmented by the trilling
of little girl laughter —
I hold them in my arms
and worries all day,
you’ll return to hold
me tired and recoiling,
warm with cabernet.
