Tuesday, October 9, 2007


© 2007 Erin Monahan

Summer passed without the fireflies
and mostly without campfires too.

There seemed to be only fire ants and sweat
and a few gatherings with friends --
some of whom have since moved on, like hope
for thunderstorms on unbearable August evenings.

Now Autumn stands at the edge of the yard,
hands held behind its back, shyly kicking at the dust
like the new boy who isn't quite welcome
at the neighborhood Labor Day parade.

And I wish I could run to him, laughing
and pull him onto the back of my bicycle and ride off,
playing cards snapping in the spokes,
let our hair blow back into July afternoons,
back to roasted marshmallows, and watermelon
that dripped, unnoticed, onto our shirts.

© 2007 Erin Monahan

There's a mockingbird in the dogwood,
and a mourning dove on the wire. Neither
takes notice of the other. So it is.

It's October,

and yet, ninety degrees in the pumpkin field,
where seeds are splayed from the hulls of the dead.

They've come to feast on gnats,
and pay no mind to the music...