Lugh

Gunfire on the rooftops,
the great oak of my childhood,
well climbed and growing old,
pours acorns as if this
will be her last season for children

Autumn falls from a
Northeastern summer that barely existed,
more storms than sun this year.

Far and away,
the seconds dragging
85 degree beach days
all into October until
the rain day comes
and 8 months begins

and I wait in harvest moonlight
for you to pour yourself
molasses over me,
thick and sweet,
something more tangible
than these 3 hours
and 3000 miles,

I wait in harvest moonlight
for your boots on the leaves
your laughter and the sound
of chopping wood,

each autumnal season
from now until the end,
but you already know,
darling boy,
you already know.