Little Brown House

Two candles on the top of the bureau flicker, light dancing

in the dimly lit room amidst the din of our love making.

I am transported, the blush of your cheeks a portal back

to a crisp autumn day on the cusp of an Indian summer;

a moist snap like a bite into a fresh apple, cool juice drips

on searing lips, voluptuous,

I was eleven then and

tears that fell freely with the

red and gold maple leaves

On the tomb-gray sidewalk, cracked and dappled with age.