Old Vines

A clamorous stream of jar fly voices punctuates the dusky air, their timbale orchestra madly vibrating raucous sound. Hand brushing hand, we stand in the garden’s waning light, where fall’s pungent, spicy extracts flick from curling dry-leaf tongues, needling tears that veil your tender gaze. We are burning the nightshade garden, clearing summer’s fading feast, our fires lanterns on a hallowed meadow eve; sharp scented, sinewy tomato plants pitched to hungry flames hiss like snakes, the stray fruits sizzling, then exploding in bursts of juicy seed. You lean toward me and shadowed silhouettes twine together like old vines. Copyright, September 15, 2015 Faye Lanham Gibson