Late Afternoon
The hushed closeness of late afternoon
Like opening the door of a closed-up room—
The low, heavy clouds, holding the air close.
Everything is quiet, as if in a spell
—or awaiting a storm
Though it’s not to come.
The late-summer cicadas create a whir
low to the ground,
matching the clouds—
holding the stillness in.
Only the yell of a playing child
and the yelp of a dog pierce the
thick atmosphere
Everyone else knows to stay quiet.
The dry-sweet scent of wild clematis
perfuming the heavy air
Like a Victorian parlor in the summertime
Film photographs of Magnolia Cemetery, where I spent many too-hot afternoons. When it’s time to be amongst the dead, you must go, no matter the weather.