Scott County Park, Early November
 
 
I want to go to Scott County Park
once more with you before
the sugar maple leaves start talking
underfoot, sticking
their yellow
and fire-engine red parchments
to my wet soles
like letters that long ago
should have been burned.  Let them curl up
and crinkle and char and flake off.  There's still too many
shreds for you to piece together
like some miracle
and read.
 
I want my fingers to rake away any debris
caught in the wire fence
protecting the empty Olympic-size swimming pool
so I can get a clear view
of how we stuck our big toes
in the summer water, laid out our warm bodies
on matching towels with
silver monograms
and held hands until
closing time. 
 
I want to see those radio-controlled planes soaring
from the knoll toward the western sun
and then looping and diving
and skywriting
in white trails some "sweet little nothings"
from the flyer
that meant everything
to his girlfriend. 
 
This park is our future,
and it's time for me to write my words for you
in early November plumes 
of breath before  
the howling winds and spanking rains blow
blinding snow like cold gravel dust
over everything,
 
and my voice chokes.   

                                       —Richard Stahl

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