Light rain on the deck,
chrysanthemums dewy
in damp terracotta skirts.
The dirt smells clean.
The world smells healthy.
Wet grass.
I lean on the rail,
watch the nearest pine
spread wide
across the charcoal sky.
Moonlight outlines
the curve of my hair,
my long nightgown,
my bent elbows
on the branches.
I feel autumn
within
and outside me.
I’m enchanted
by stars,
the cool night,
and my shadow.
I want
to make rabbit ears,
flying birds,
to dance
as if I’m six again,
performing alone
in Cadwalader Park,
singing
for robins
and squirrels.
My shadow
smiles at me.
Even if I cannot see it,
I know
it’s wry.
Because
this must be
how Peter Pan felt
when he grew up.