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Saturday Poem / Fox Chapel Road
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At night, we drove through the rolling country,
suburbia. The leaves in the fall lit the road
ablaze. It was thick, brush of wooded forestry,
clear, black water at dark -- land we grew to know.
Suburbia. The leaves in the fall littered the road,
dirt-covered, back alleys. We parked along a trail
where a stream of black water ran -- grew to know
this quiet place best in the evening. Rusted, pale
Pittsburgh, dirt covered back alleys and trails,
we wandered into the fields barefoot, let the tall grass
of this place some evenings thread through our pale
feet. We lay together under a clear sky like thin glass
after wandering into the fields barefoot. Tall grasses
wrapped through my hair and over our bare skin,
while we lay under a clear sky as thin as glass.
You told me then that you could see within
the sky the outline of my face, our fair skin.
Winding roads, thick brush of wooded forests --
you are what I remember of home; our flowering limbs
at night when we drove through the rolling country.
First Published August 11, 2012 12:00 am
