Life With Horace

poetry & essays

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High summer in an
old house occupied by 
an army of visiting bugs
brings dreams of parachutes
for those I can’t bear to kill
and must evict.
The one too many ones,
the wrong kind of spider.
A waving scuttler brings on
a rush to scoop up elbowed legs
and angled hairy parts, 
run the mercy packet to the door
release the tissue wrapped
passenger, and watch it float
down to sanctuary on a bed
of violet leaves.  


A very old house. In the winter we have critters. Summer brings the bugs The right kind of spiders? Thin bodied long-legged spiders that look like Charlotte. 


long shadow morning

the day starts clear
and weather sits the fence
undecided voter between
sultry and first frost
the hummingbirds have gone
and small flocks pulse
from ground to tree to air
some landing in the shelter
of my apple tree
across the road bright reds
appear to punctuate
short timer green
the usual pangs are there
as warmth and light
begin to turn away
but less robust somehow
each summer moment’s heat
soaked into bone and soul
defense against regret

for me seasonal change has always been about being observant, and the aggregation of small events. september has a clear, long slanting light. my favorite month.