A hot dry wind
sends brown leaves
sliding across the rough, cracked concrete.
In the lee of the birch tree,
they bunch against the ledge
of a single-stone layer
lining the north edge of the driveway.
From time to time,
a stronger breeze
rattles the leaves
and swirls them into different shapes
but in pretty much the same place.
I am weary of the heat,
the feel of tired feet after long days
and the way the desire to do nothing
wilts away the small plans I made
on the drive back home.
I am ready for cool mornings,
light mist forming over the pasture
in the low light of dawning,
and the smell of dark-fired tobacco
curing in old barns
in western Kentucky.
I am ready for autumn.
But in the gap between now
and the change for which I am longing,
I will welcome a bit of time
to sit still for a while,
a little rest in this place of quietness
and the touch of my lover’s voice
soothing the soreness
of my own choices.