Chicken Little was right. It’s Sunday
and the sky is falling. It’s Sunday night
and it’s almost midnight or it seems like
midnight without you here. It’s late and
it’s August or almost August and you’re
not here; you’re out there somewhere,
staring up at the same stars in another
kind of sky.
………………Come back to me soon. Come
home tonight to this house of straw, losing
its battle with the wind; come home again
from the sea and the salted air to the trees
on the hills alive with green and the stars
falling like wayward wishes.
……………………………….Come home, my love.
It’s almost August. The midnight sky is falling.
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I put “final” touches on this just last light; a poem started a few years back, waiting for My Beloved Sandra to finish up her annual family get-together in Maine and return to my Green Mountains in Vermont.
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Real Toads Tuesday Platform
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