Crabapples crushed.

The sickly sweet smell and bees hanging around.

Mowing the lawn, maybe the last time;

frost has kissed us once or twice.

Make room for fall, make room for winter.

Time passes, times comes, time goes;

the only thing that changes is me!

I hear the echo in the wind;

I am an old girl now.

I am a croaking old thing. I am a

tired ghost of myself. I dance in

the twilight; I dance in the wild

twist of the willow branches.

I have babies that sing;

soft kittens that sigh, soft kittens that cry.

I am a lonely tree, I bend and glow and

scatter my leaves like ashes.

Ashes glow in the grate.

I am a lonely woman, the ashes are

grey and dusty and hollow.

Time releases her scent slowly, a stale odor

gradually soaking the tiny closet walls like

mothballs; slowly I am overcome.

Bee stings healing, ugly red blotches,

tired red pancakes, fried eggs bloody side up.

Numbers trying to catch time. I will take you far away.

I will hover in your ear till the sand swallows us.

I will nestle in your arms till the swallows fly.

Time to dance.

Time to close the wounds, apply glue.

Dance on sour toes.

Dance in sore clothes.

Time in training for ultimate death.

Soap opera dance, eternal lovers,

the african violet dance.

Fall is here, trees change, crabapples, lawn mowing.


by Cher Bibler