Closed Door

Light peers through the
door soundly closed,
dust picks up breeze
squeezing underneath
to rummage across
a cold wood floor.

Though deadbolted,
stoically built against
elements, something still
manages to squeeze
into the room where
I am not with him.

Before prohibitive entry
the only separation
between hearth and sky
was a screen door
that filtered fresh air
in, and kept bugs out.

What slammed the door
is hard to identify precisely,
imperceptible swings
from a forever consideration
to just help me get through
ultimately shut me out.

Back up against it,
conversation suspended,
the quiet takes over
leaning hard on me;
I’m done with trying,
nothing’s left to open.

Interstate 55 on an Autumn Eve

Horizon flushed
as her sun left,
hitting the field
hard in exit;

longer night falls
to cool warm sky,
Indian sun
soaked tired fields.

Cicada’s last
dog day swan song
hustles farmers
to beat first frost-

in rush of wings,
black birds fly low
picking over
corn combine’s dust.

Pink reflection
settles to soothe
the shorter day
summer left us.