Hinges

Hinges.

There was magic within that last Indian summer
After running the shores of lakes, twelve years long
The burnt days of September, and the flickering ash of childhood
Washed far from April rains, after Julys hard sun waned to dusk
When the dogs of August ran with me, and stopped to shake the sand from their feet
As I too halted, and shook the mornings loose to the dapple of unknown days
When the door to fall, at summers end, lay before me on shiny hinge
I turn and see the sleeping hound, the dreams of want and bluest skies
All those blankets, moonlit greys of picnic baskets over filled with laughter
When innocence crackled aside warming fires, embers of seconds fleeing my hours
The parable of youth in its quieted slumber, moves me to the door
And open thus, never more to close, large and heavy, much heavier than me
Swings wide to fall and unlit paths.
And behind me, the last gasp of Indian summer brushed my back, my shirt the flag aflutter, and seized the years of sands ride in wind,
Pushed me headlong, my bottled march, to snows and years unfelt,
And in magic, I disappeared.