The end of summer,
the leaves not quite yet yellow,
Joan and I debate
the value of stories,
first envisioning them
as cages, then reimagining
them as wings. We cannot
decide as we stop to eat
the only raspberry there is
this side of September,
where to draw lines.
After two hours, I know
less than I did two hours before,
but the sun laces our not knowing
through the shadowed glades,
and it feels so good
to walk through the green leaves
with Joan, once upon a time.
Some finely turned words here, the last strawberry, the sun lacing our not knowing, which ties so well to the continued walk. Also seeing stories as cages and wings, I like that too. The ending “once upon a time” seems a bit predictable but I’m not sure where else I would go. It does bring the initial debate back to the poem, which works, I think. I wonder if there’s a way to turn that last phrase to make it yours, something like “once upon a story” or “once upon our time” — that sort of thing.