Wednesday, October 12, 2011

It Was, And Is, Indian Summer.

At this time last year, I had just moved back to Chicago. Everything was different then. Everything is the same. I am different now. I am the same.

It was beautiful Indian summer weather that week, just as it's been this week in Chicago. The Sunday afternoon after we had moved in, I sat on the back deck and wrote for hours. And since everything is the same, but completely different now, I thought I'd share a poem I wrote that day.


It is maybe the 10th of October. 
It is possibly my new sister-in-law's 
birthday. If it is, in fact, the 10th of October
and my memory serves me right.

I am definitely sitting on my new porch,
drinking the last Stella, with my dirty feet
propped on Patricia. My bike,
that is. I am listening to this Regina Spektor
song and wondering what to write.

It is Indian summer.

I told everyone and no one 
about my return to Chicago.
Because I am in love and terrified
of everything, it is hard to explain.
I am never quite sure what is right.

It is the most impossibly beautiful weather
you might possibly imagine in Chicago.
Nowadays I will see a friend every time 
I step out my door.
But what is there to write!

It is Indian summer.

It is now this Dirty Projectors song
I'm listening to. She sings about
geranium kisses and failure.
I'm not sure if I understand,
but it feels right.

I know I am often a difficult and 
infuriating friend. It is too 
difficult pleasing everyone all 
the time. This I write.

It is Indian summer. 

I think that it is possibly 
the 10th of October. It is definitely
a beautiful day in Logan Square,
and the planes cross the nearly
cloudless sky. This is right!

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