A Hundred Gourds 3:1 December 2013
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Carol Pearce-Worthington - USA

Summer’s End

Slowly we make our way through the August afternoon heavy with a rain forecast that does not materialize. He leans against a cement flower pot while I make a bank deposit. It’s pretty here, he says. Then I take his hand and we start across First Avenue. Halfway to the other side the light turns red; keep walking I tell him. Cars race toward us. We have no wings. Later I watch while he sleeps, head in his hands. No wings.

full moon
I tell it
to his dreams

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