Nine Eleven: 10 Years Later

Heavy skies drop rain

daily in intermittent waves

this old summer cottage

of ours harbors air eddies

demands the wood stove

current-sucking heater coils

extra layers, sweaters, wool

socks; trees wave remnants

of their storm-seared leaves.

Potted foliage sags its greenery

fallen petals stain the porch floor

radio reminiscences recount

the horrors, one after another

a couple who jumped, hands

intertwined, rather than burn

a firefighter whose father

still sleeps with the memory

of his son’s last words: I love

you; a boy too young to know

more than his granddad got hurt.

In waning light on burnished fields

the Island holds close its seasonal

charms. I learn a new name for

those gauzy wild clematis cloaks

Devil’s Darning Needles, shared

with the common dragonfly

stitched now for us with jets

turned into deadly missiles

aiming at our nation’s heart.

— Brooks Robards