Late Summer

Tonight’s moon has dropped its shawl.
                        I’m in the yard again, waiting

for the air to crawl out from under the ferns
                        where it has been hiding

all day, cheek to mud.
                        This communion with stillness,

a simple arrangement
                        for the willing—

Want nothing, and the dark
                        will lessen the distance

between your body and its own
                        as a rabbit sometimes will

when hungry or untroubled enough
                        to come very close,

herald from some quieter place
                        breathing beside us.

Read on . . .

Cooking Pasta for My Parents,” a poem by Lee Colin Thomas

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