Dreaming of Vermont Syrup
I wrote on a page for fourteen minutes
but the page was so much a sponge
that the ink vanished into the fibers
and everything I said about September
vanished from my hand
and from my mind
as if September never existed
or was just a dull stain on the carpet
of something that spilled
several years ago.
But the page smelled wet,
so I held it above a dry spot in my yard
not far from the lilac bush
and squeezed the page like a sodden towel
and most of September
wrung out of the page
to form a puddle on the ground
that quickly soaked in.
The next morning my lilac bush
had red and gold maple leaves
and I could taste football
in the scent of its multi-colored blooms.