No more a hammock to bright yellow suns,
a white mesh sock hangs empty of Niger seed.
The thud of acorns hits the drive
and twig-crackling limbs snap underfoot.
Smoke wafts up from the woods, the acrid smell
of leaves, the blue vapor of longing.
The dark comes earlier now, a chill in the air.
Yet the soil sings of saturation, and the trees exhale
the color of champagne. In the slant light
of late afternoon, the sun streams through the haze,
through the high windows in the house, and leans
into the single sheaf of wheat bending in its vase
as if to say, Only what vanishes and returns
Mary Jo Balistreri has two books of poetry published by Bellowing Ark Press and a chapbook by Tiger's Eye Press. She has more recently been enjoying learning and writing haiku type poems. She finds it helps her see differently and experience life in a new way. For more information, please visit her at maryjobalistreripoet.com