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Fall in the Midwest, my always-favorite season of the year. By the end of July or middle of August, I’m already looking forward to those refreshingly crisp, soul-soothing days of autumn. We were robbed, more than just a little bit, this time around though. There were a few achingly beautiful days, to be sure. For the most part, however, September and October were either way too warm – and humid – early on or miserably gloomy with harsh winds, overcast skies and damp, teeth-rattling cold, even a dusting or two of snow.

So when the opportunity presented itself, my sister Theresa and I took full advantage. Hubbies were both otherwise occupied so we decided a little gravel travel was called for. We travelled the back roads of Warren and Madison counties and stumbled upon some delightful discoveries. The temps were mild, the sky was oh-so-blue, there was no wind or breeze to speak of and the golden hour, she did not disappoint.

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                  In forty years,
my first book of poetry
will have been published
this day.

A lean volume, with work
I’ve deemed my best
without — at last — a care in the world
for others’ thoughts or estimations.

Words joined and fastened
as I wish them to be.
No regard for rules,
                           or voice,
         or form.

My poetry tells the stories
I’ve wanted to write
my entire life
caring little if at all
as to who might wish to read them.

Judge me,
judge me not.

                  In forty years,
I’ll be 102.

Writing then
with abandon
as oh! How I wish
I was brave enough
to do so now.

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Inspired by a July 28th story in the Washington Post about a woman, Sarah Yerkes, who published her first book of poetry on June 15, 2019 at the age of 101. She began writing poetry in her 90’s.

Her book is called Days of Blue and Flame.

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Shy skeletons never cross
busy highways come midnight
with the prospect of corn mush
for breakfast,
soft-boiled eggs
neatly tucked inside
crisp linen napkins,
finely pressed
with razor-thin creases —
no kitchen messes,
no slop to mop up,
no vittles to fetch
or firewood to stack
in the far reaches
of bitter cold corners
of widowed shelters
run haphazard
and crosswise
every blasted December.

Eerie lights
shine in
many a mysterious
manner,
regardless of your philosophy
or take on life.

And that’s a fact.