More Than One Basket Can Hold

 

This morning in late August

we have finally turned to the private churning

of the Earth's surface and the space between here

and the edge of the sky's great clouds,

into the hanging willow branches, light,

bouncing as a young girl's long hair,

charmingly remembering 

in this braided chill undone,

the aching for frost and shivering

sweater weather.

It is almost pleasant to wallow in the sheets

too cool against my skin like a first light swim,

too cool to be alone in my bed and fend off the fields

of worries of winter in my mind.

The patter of a soaking rain,

mourning doves cooing, over,

and over and over.

I return to that native garden of my grandmother

where hollyhock leaves are lacy brown 

and impatiens and begonias overflow,

electric with color, the beginning 

of the end.

Back to the darkness soon.

Back to school season with shoes on our feet.

Back to the clock and alarms 

reminding us 

to wake up

searching to find the cricket 

of Creator's voice 

in this open season,

making us more

than one basket

can hold.