S. Thomas Summers

To Have and To Hold

Night wind plucked
last leaves off the tall elm,
pasted each crimson
blotch to the house –
a constellation of age spots.

Now I see how much
the paint has faded,
how it curls off the wood
shingles – eyelashes curling
away from an old face.

I ask if you’d prefer
a new color. You spoon
sugar in my coffee, scrape
a finger across my toast
for a taste of jam and say

"Perhaps, but the old
blue feels more like home."

In case you need me

God, here I am –
in the shaded corner
of my yard, scraping

off the moss that clings
to the tool shed. For a moment,
I’ll rest beneath this old

birch. It reminds me of grandpa –
how it arches over
the house, the way he leaned

over my bed when I
was a tired child, told
me his stories: circus

elephants and toeless
monkeys – taught
me how to find you.