End of Summer in the Foothills
She mimes a child, hatching an idea, pacing the yard, eyes widening, she imitates an actor, acting mincing, parrying a blow, embracing the air, wriggling out of it. I know the answer, Charades, but I won't say it. Let her win. Let the secret be a secret. She turns her brother's socks, cap, a bazooka, wrapper a twig into props. But the meaning is just evening, Mount Tabor, make believe. Two
Gunjan Joshi
@Bibliophile · 1:01
Good evening, Katharine. It's a beautiful evening here in India and your poem describing the end of the summer in Foothills and approaching fall is a perfect way to end the day. I must say that I could relate to its each sentence because my hometown is also in Foothills. What I love about the fall of Foothills is that you would experience regeneration and destruction at the same time in all the life processes
Thank you, Gunjan, so much for your comments. I am also a lover of the foothills and the way, as you described, they place you in a kind of ambiguous place in a place of suspension, where day by day, a season might seem to move forward and then actually fall back a little bit. We are having a very cold, rainy day here today, but in a couple of days, it's going to be sunny and warm again