Autumn Sky Poetry . . . Number 18 . . .


     by Laura Levesque

The storm burst with summer heat that had been building since noon.

Perched in the treehouse with glass windows high in an ancient

oak, I felt little fear. The only light came in through wavy rain beating

against the panes, placed by the farm's previous owner, a father

more doting than the ones you and I could claim. The other children

had raced up the hill in time to wait it out in the main house, staining

their tongues day-glo with bright popsicles, riding out the storm

in the cool basement gloom. It was the first time we were alone.

Your shoes scratched across the plywood floor. I looked down at the

dirt on my own shins and feet, skin brown from playing hours and hours

in summer fields. You touched me with no trepidation, fingertips so light

with sweetness, I came to you as fearlessly as the calf whose leg had snapped

in Sully's field, whose mother had left it for dead. Somehow she knew you

would help her. Somehow I knew the same was true for me. I tasted

your scent when you kissed me, holding on in grey fragmented

light like this was the last moment it would ever come so easily

to either of us, that it would end with the sudden force

of the rain as quickly as it had begun.


Laura Levesque grew up in Baltimore, Maryland. She earned her Bachelor's in Creative Writing from the University of New Mexico at Albuquerque. She has been published in Touch: The Journal of Healing, The Externalist, Montage, Mirage, and others. She lives in Virginia with her family.


© 2010 Laura Levesque