This is the Way the Light Struck That Year
One
October
Evening not late, where the
Weeds
Cry out
In the field
For you
I would gather pumpkins
In my arms
If I could carry
More than two.
*
My childhood love is waiting there
Past a bridge of brambles.
*
The path is sweet and set with vines
Poison ivy, poison oak, poison sumac.
The stream is not contained.
Step here.
Step here, I hate the mud
I want to build a house of stone
And clean the river-worms from it in the morning
With a rake.
David M. deLeon has worked in New Jersey as a music journalist, editor, and proofreader. His credits include The Adirondack Review, The Cortland Review, Fence Magazine, and Only The Sea Keeps: Poetry of the Tsunami. contact
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