Abby Minor left Pennsylvania at eighteen, but she canít stop thinking about the hills of home. She is currently living in Washington, DC, where she interns at a museum, cooks beans, and writes.
On a day split by ten bright rains
I lean on a dumpster and wonder
that I am not struck dead
by the bluest sky there ever was hung high
across the valley.
It is the time of year when men wear
the scent of cold leaves and car engines.
Clouds unfurl like prayers,
Pick-up tires and horse-hoofs shine, turn, and clip.
The evening comes to cast nets
around my poor heart,
to string me up with air unlocked
by taffy orange and luminous blue,
to slack the line with purple and a star.
The world knows so many languages
for ravaging the heart.
Each morning gathers
her instruments in dashes of clear light,
flickering slangs and slips of scarlet.
I skip beats, I swoon in maroon afternoons.
These days, fall is fooling around
with a drawl, spinning out gold
feather-headed grasses in roadside ditches.
Tethers snap by the thousands, seeds and leaves unlashed.
All slack on the world! The engine cuts, we glide.
Clouds and windows fall,
light drops heavily and rises like milkweed.
Dark bones of tree limbs scatter in the roads
under the burning and butter-colored whirlwinds
tossed up behind moving cars.
Moonlight soaps the trees at night,
The old wood songs begin.
Live branches, houses, fires
creak and snap their secret kinship languages.
The last tomatoes are bright with rot.
A small white moth is trembled by miniscule breezes,
a single weightless snowflake rising and
falling in the pine branches.