We Pine

the changing season
lures
a bustling return
to the great indoors
of popular
urban chophouses’
savory
succulent
fleshy fall
scents
of zesty
roasting autumn roots
of searing
peppery seasoned fowl
of sizzling
copious cuts
of cured tangy turf
calling salaciously
from wafting
open pores
of luminary masterchefs’
smoldering
kitchen doors

outside

lying
timorously
low
on the fledgling harvest horizon
the tepid
yellow
recoiling september sun
musters
all
its waning will
to embrace
condolingly
the biting
bitter breezes’ promise
of yet another
untrumpeted
insidious onset
of the grey season’s
lingering …
of icicles & north
easterly
piercing winds
in its best
of last ditch efforts
to clutch us closer
to the fire’s
radiant warmth
of summer’s
tender reliving

of silver stars
and August moons
of azure skies
and sandy dunes
of splashing seals
and soaring whales
of purple pastures
and wind-blown sails
of warm summer rains
and earth’s meaty scents
of greensugary-cut lawns,
friends’ laughter and laments
of dancing by the sea
and chocolate tans
of bursting blue
and pink hydrangeas
on the very same stem

of marauding burly bands
of wild turkeys’
pecking
at mornings’ humid
sweet and sour, high-bush
native
Truro blueberries

of fourteen-hour days
and a yellow-tail fox’s
gesturing gaze
in the reassuring glow
of a July
waxing moon’s
smiling,
knowing eyes

we pine

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