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Last Promises
by Roberta Feins

September bronze hills stood still
though birds hurried by on obliging winds.
The soul rang clear in the night, boot heels
on sidewalks of an Old West town.

Cedars faced me openly, but meadow
grasses sighed and lay down. The reaper
plowed a swath, baled their last words,
wrapped them with plastic skin.

Thursday night, I opened all the windows,
raised my eyes to the luminous moon.
Suddenly, earth and I changed places;
I lay down to better bear the weight.

Together, we said goodbye to summer.






 

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