THESE are the reckless mighty days returned, white haired and ravenous.
The paper bark maples drop their poems, the July rains crowd in close.
The Sunday paper obituaries fill the kitchen with the sylvan lives of others.
Fuchsia, white and orange in the garden.
I claim these days for doing nothing, for watching green fir cones fall.
I claim these days for imagining how you looked in your first car,
auburn hair flying, all the boys at baseball practice itchy and wondering,
your dress a flurry of blue dragonfly wings, perfume and desire.
I claim these days for imagining the light rising behind the mountains
and the tall boy at the grocery store finding just the right things
to say about all your days to come.