|
Cecelia's
Weekend at Jerusalem
By Rudolph Lewis
I’m in a chair at the
woodshed’s mouth
Jerusalem’s steeple
rises above a grove
of trees between the
field and the paved
road running by the
church. Cecelia came
home, came to be with
me, me gathering
up my childhood of
sixteen years what
was a small farm of
cotton, peanuts, corn
tobacco, vegetable
garden, pigs, and a mule
that well, mama and
daddy dug
in 48—all is gone,
‘cept the outhouse
leaning lone and white
by a black gum.
I feed branches, chips
from an old dry
pine dead by the
blue-rocked driveway
The fire flames up,
she hears hot crackles
our own heart’s song
in the wind’s green
rush whirring tree
tops. The sun bright
in autumn limbed
leaves, falling. Blue smoke
dervishes devoutly,
twirling around and up
in the excited country
air. She’s out of place
back in time, flush
and tired cheeks wet.
She knows Mama senses
her as trouble
& we were dizzy
without plans or future.
She drove north 95
back to DC, her red
lights firing my mind,
me speechless with
desires unfulfilled.
The sun is golden
sinking into Sunday
evening goodbyes.
I toss a kiss .A cardinal flutters by overhead. |