Sandy Ostrau © 2020
by Jane Craven
Equinox
The swirling eye of August, silent at its center,
contains whole flocks of birds, unaware
their diminished world is being carried out to sea.
Today an insect brushed my elbow.
I could tell it was a locust by the dry fluttering.
There is the apple and there is
everything beyond it: orchards from another time,
their forgotten bounty spilling to the ground, filled
with the low hum of yellow jackets.
I consider the world’s rotation, its orderly, unvaried,
tipping into shadow.
Soon the harvest air will burn through our lungs
sparking a dry flutter of happiness, of desire.
I want to do it again, abandon this tidy life, fly
into someone’s arms.
How sweet it was to surrender, to fall uncontrollably
in cities among shards of light,
and in towns the color of honey and coral.