It is the end of summer.
\nThe air is white,
\nfields dry like burned lakes.
\nWheat is ripening
\nwith the odor of grainy dust.
\nI do not know
\nwhat to do with myself.
\nAutumn is hinted at
\nin the yellow haze of the trees.
\nA powder coming from the drought.
\nI will travel to Rome in a few weeks.
\nSee the rocky hillsides of the Apian Way.
\nBuy trinkets at the Vatican.
\nHow will fall show itself there?
\nRome in summer\u2019s last hurrah.<\/p>\n
Will it glow with the flame
\nof an Ohio autumn?
\nIn the dawn of a cool sunrise,
\nan epiphany of remoteness,
\nmy heart full of openings,
\nletting a breeze come through,
\non a day like the first coast
\nI\u2019d ever seen?
\nMy feet cold in the water,
\navoiding the green dapples of slime
\non the rocks,
\ngloriously alive,
\nremembering the deep land
\nof my youth,
\nfull of roads and bridges,
\ncoming alive in the fall,
\ntasting the fruit of a whole summer
\nin my hands? <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
It is the end of summer. The air is white, fields dry like burned lakes. Wheat is ripening with the odor of grainy dust. I…<\/p>\n