Fall at last.
Heat came too early
and stayed too long.
All summer I dreamed
of fog-shrouded beaches,
walks on thick-leafed paths
under trees bearded with wisdom.
The wind is not spice.
It is heavy with the scent of
charred sycamore and
Home Depot specials.
I spend hours sorting
my belongings in my head.
What would I take?
What leave behind?
And through the days
when fire wraps and cooks
me into a hard brown nut,
I am prepared to start over,
forget the dreams I’ve lived.
Like the earth, I drink
the hard liquor of reality.
Fire, earthquake, flood,
things lose their meaning.
Soggy or turned to ash,
form no longer holds.
Yes, I can see myself wizened
and leak proof, afloat,
memories chittering around me
like so many children.
There are burdens I would not go without.
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Beverly Lafontaine is a poet and playwright living in the foothills of Pasadena, California. Her poems have appeared in a variety of journals, including Spillway, Blue Satellite, and most recently, MORIA, the online literary zine of Woodbury University. Four of her poems will appear in Waves, the upcoming anthology from the AROHO Foundation.
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