Winding down

You can feel it in the air. Cooler nights and the whirring of late-summer insects whisper to us that the end of summer is coming. They remind us to pay attention. Because nothing lasts forever.

Ephemera

The boys have just left
leaving a trail of empty beer bottles in their wake.
Another summer (begun with such an illusion of abundance)
is winding down.

My parents’ home
where I spent my adolescence
is also about to pass away.
The antique hutch, the highboy, and all the knickknacks will soon disburse.
The photos of my young handsome parents
will be cherished a while longer, and then fade.

Even my pictures from Italy, taken last month!
In the past, they would have been carefully mounted in albums.
Now they will be posted on Face Book, or left in a file on the computer
till chance malfunction or indifference wipes them away.

All this falling, fading and ending is the nature of things.
But a philosophical shrug
fails to honor the end of things
that will never be again, in any form.

Sunday Night

The 11:45 sleeper train has pulled out of the station.
So, too, the 12:10, the 1:15, the 2:25 and the 3:30.

My husband departed promptly on the 12:45.
I gave a wistful wave
as he rumbled off down the track.

And still I wait alone on the platform,
surrounded by bags
stuffed with worry and exhaustion.

Monday night

The black-uniformed station master
leads me to the door
unnoticed in the wall.

It glides open, I step in
and descend silently into oblivion.

Only later in the night will I rise
and wander over to see what’s playing
in the theater of dreams.