NINE ELEVEN: 10 YEARS LATER

Heavy skies drop rain 
daily in intermittent waves 
this old summer cottage 
of ours harbors air eddies 
demands the wood stove 
current-sucking heater coils 
extra layers, sweaters, wool 
socks; trees wave remnants 
of their storm-seared leaves.

Potted foliage sags its greenery 
fallen petals stain the porch floor 
radio reminiscences recount 
the horrors, one after another 
a couple who jumped, hands 
intertwined, rather than burn 
a firefighter whose father 
still sleeps with the memory 
of his son’s last words: I love 
you; a boy too young to know 
more than his granddad got hurt.

In waning light on burnished fields 
the Island holds close its seasonal 
charms. I learn a new name for 
those gauzy wild clematis cloaks 
Devil’s Darning Needles, shared 
with the common dragonfly 
stitched now for us with jets 
turned into deadly missiles 
aiming at our nation’s heart.

By Brooks Robards