Posts Tagged ‘august’




The boy who has been gone for a week

approaches his mother at the curb


outside the school. Did you have fun?

she asks, and he gives her a lopsided


smile that doesn’t even pretend to be cool.

His cheeks are sunburned and his hair


is sun drenched and his shoes are mismatched

and dusty. He is happy. Oh yes, mom, he says,


and he falls in her arms and she holds up

his tired weight. It is August and the leaves


have already begun to yellow on the hill.

He tells her of herons, how they flew at sunset,


their wings backlit and shining. Then he reaches

in his backpack to pull out a rock, a gray flint


in the shape of a heart. He slips it in her hand

and doesn’t move to leave her. They stand


on the curb long after all the other campers

have left with their families. All around them,


the scent of rain about to come, the sound

of men with their hammers building


something new.






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