she waited until

no one was watching

and then slipped away

 

spreading out slowly
into the still night air —
scent of a skunk

reaching back
into my childhood
for my mother's hand

gentle surrender —
every growing thing bends down
bowing to the heat

sometimes at night
I imagine my grandfather
running away again

last days of summer —
children at play in the fields
refusing to come in

we treat ourselves
to old albums, saying
"He still makes that face!"

at last the cornfields
grow tall enough to get lost in —
September sunshine

it seemed to us then
that the moon had stayed full
for an extra night