Summer Memory at Dripping Springs

© by Tommie Flannery Baskis

Late summer days linger in hazy dreams before the door of autumn. I find in Dripping Springs an old forgotten rose bush by the white clapboard home, abandoned many, many summers ago.

The rotten bird house still clings to a post at the old, Pickett Cemetery; where many children went to dreamin’, laughing and sleepin’ in another place and time.

Wind moves through the dry poke weed, whistling a tune that sounds like flames cracking.

Poke berries; make the prettiest stain…for my aged gingham dress

Deepest magenta, I imagine, will stain my hands.

Barn, gone to the trees, sees no one now; not even secret lovers.

Hay bales, heavy and sweet smelling, sit fat awaiting the autumn damp and mice.

Summer will leave soon; it will find its way back here again after cold winter moons grow tired…

 

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