Westwind

The Same

Lauren McMeikan

season’s first rain

on the last saturday of my summer.

the breeze scrapes the trees,

the stoplight’s steel post mists.

 

it is most certainly autumn now.

we are grown and must set aside evenings.

no unexpected visits on a beach cruiser with a basket and a bell.

no unsuspected afternoons seeking shelter in the your wooden planked tree house.

no spontaneous lemonade and cookie sales at the bottom of the bike path near the park.

 

but with the raindrops laughing down my window pane

crackling as they fly from sky to cement

i can hear

 

(some distant illusion of youth)

 

board games and hot chocolate with miniature marshmallows,

and movie marathons before we knew the term ‘marathon,’

and sloppy attempts at pedicures with green polish.

 

today we are different

(but i feel quite the same)

 

the sun sheds a torrent of tears in her sleep,

(as we skip down the boulevard)

you don a borrowed sweatshirt, the hood shields your ears from the wind.

my toes tingle at the icy sensation of water seeping through my slipper-shoes.

 

the scent in the air about me,

that I once heard was ozone coming unglued from the atmosphere –

salty, on the verge of stale but satisfying all the same

(i still taste it)

though all that remains is the rhythmic drumming on the tin roof across the way,

and the soaked hair and pant legs from drops and puddles.

typically, I do not care for rain,

but i do not mind this.

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