by David Cho
These are the days stretched long. The weeks
when darkness sets, then the rain, the falling leaves,
frost, the early morning light. These are the days
when light breaks, holding the night, and turning
leaves red. These are the long days, the ladybugs
making their final turn, flurry of red wings,
scissoring in procession upwards. Let not a young child
bottle their journey; let their migration up trees,
up wind be longer. Let not the children’s games
be interrupted. Their shallow pantings: bat, ball,
tag: let their nervous joy be longer.
The leaves settle on the grass, red peat
makes the ground damp. The ripe smell of cut
grass and fallen leaves. Its damp sweet weight
falls on ponds; fish greet the ripeness, rise
their lips open. The fishermen are happy.
Let the weight linger longer. Windows open,
curtains spill out from the house.
Let these summers be gloried; and these red peat days,
the glory we long for.
