by MEGGAN C. PEAK
Maple leaves yield
silver undersides, bent
with the day’s heat escaping
the driveway.
Air has trembled
over the asphalt all day,
a day meant for hiding
lawn chairs, securing
the patio umbrella, before late afternoon
gathers, pressing on the throat
of the jay, and those tender
foolish maple stems.
Deer have eaten
your August lilies, leaving
a dry cicada rattle blooming
in your place next to mine.
Excuse me. The deer move
on to the hibiscus.
–
Meggan C. Peak, formerly a pathologist, presently a mother, lives in Cincinnati. She writes to explore the mind and the natural world. Her work is forthcoming in Pulse– voices from the heart of medicine.
© Meggan C. Peak
Halfway Down the Stairs 