"And when fall comes, there’s this."

What I wish I could give you, and what we already have. Poem written mid-September 2021.

Sixty degrees this morning. Grass slick with dew, leaves gathering in piles along the curb. A lonely dog is barking in his yard, streets away. Mine barely lifts his head.

You won’t be born in a mountain town, nor in the country. But this is close. As close as I can get you. For now, this is what we have.

Last weekend an orange September sun sank into the hills while your father and grandfather drank tart wine and played cards in Haymarket. Vineyard along a windy road, an old home filled with ghosts. You were there too.

This week I sail past Nokesville farms in my old rattling car, turning right on Valley View Drive, dropping letters at the post office before 5. On the way home, the store, and ingredients for dinner, sitting quiet in my green basket. Normal life, regular things. You’re here with me too.

Already, already, I want to give you the world, place it in your outstretched hand.

I want to give you sweeping seas, a house dusted with sand, and hurricanes, angry gusts in winter, boarded up windows, clouds of swirling, screaming gray.

I want to give you a cabin deep in the trees, humming, whistling, hidden in the Blue Ridge, rivers and lakes and snakes spilling secrets at your feet.

I want to give you an oasis in the desert, the land of your father’s people. Electric darting lizards, and wildflowers, in shocking orange, bursting forth from dry earth.

At night, in each of these places, the galaxy before us like a shaken-out blanket, and huge starry lanterns, and you, reaching, poking the chilled sky with your fingertips, piercing it.

But, this is what we have, for now. You, here with me. Picture perfect little neighborhood, tucked away in green. Christmas lights and inflatable Santas. This is what we have. February snowflakes, and pink paper hearts on windowpanes. Mothers and grandmothers on brisk walks in April, sweatshirts tied around waists.

It’s what we have. Popsicles, sticky fingers, garden hoses in July. Sidewalk chalk, hopscotch. A cat or two, trailing after you, down this quiet street. This is what we have.

And when fall comes, there’s this.

Vineyards, letters, soup simmering on the stove. Windows open, a gold kitchen. What we already have. Screen doors, pumpkin cookies cooling on the counter. A sea salt candle, gifted from a neighbor.

And sunlight in the sugar jar.