Hometown Summer

Walking past Victorian houses,

I hear faint piano music.

                       

Wrought-iron gates

still stand in front.

 

It is too hot

this perfect summer evening

to push away the memories.

 

Each note hangs

in recollection’s comfort

 

where we divide

the locust shells—

gathered from trunks

and low branches of trees—

into brown paper bags.

 

Nostalgia?

 

Only foreplay.

 

Windless air

traps the delicate scent

of pale yellow roses.

 

I have courage to go on.

 

first published in Domicile