Fall Again

For the past month, I’ve had the joy of participating in Rabbit Room Poetry’s, Poetry Workshop led by Wild Goose Words poet, Ashlyn McKayla Ohm. I don’t know why I am always surprised, but there are so many amazing poets out there putting words together in ways that ignite my imagination and inspire my heart.

Over the course of the four week workshop, groups of poets gathered via Zoom to workshop their own poems together. It was wonderful. (Poets are the best!) It was a particular blessing to be able to see other poets enter into the life-giving experience of creating in a supportive and engaging community.

I was first introduced to a group of poets like this during the pandemic in 2020 when Rabbit Room’s annul October conference, Hutchmoot, had to go “Homebound.” The Poetry Pub writing community held a Zoom open mic as Hutchmoot Homebound concluded, and I read, for the first time in my life, a poem I’d written, out loud to others. It was an incredible blessing. It has been so much of a blessing that I’ve continued to write with, be inspired by, and get to know those poets more deeply over the six years since a that open mic, and that gathering has continued each month since.

During these four weeks, it was especially encouraging to see many whom I’ve gotten to know through that open mic, leading breakout rooms during this workshop. All are such good poets and people: Charissa Sylvia, Mark Rico, Elizabeth Wickland, Rachel S. Donahue, Ashlyn McKayla Ohm, Jen Rose Yokel… and those are only the ones I personally know. And what’s more, this poetry workshop introduced me to other wonderful people and poets: Madeline Gegenheimer, Anna Taylor, Daye Phillippo, and others. (Have told you that poets are the best?)

As I said, over the course of the four weeks, we workshopped our poems with one another. The listening ears, encouraging words, helpful feedback, and camaraderie blessed my socks off. The poem I wrote was not the one I started out to write. Our breakout room facilitator shared a draft of a poem she was working on that talked about tomatoes.

Did you know that there is a variety of tomato is named, Mortgage Lifter? What a name! —I kid you not. And by the way, Breakout Room 13 is still waiting to hear the next draft of that poem. [Ehem, we’re looking at you Daye Phillippo.]

The subject of tomatoes hijacked my brain. I was taken back to the Augusts of my formative years and later to my own adulthood, when August was the time for canning tomatoes and especially making my Great-Great-Grandmother Sommers’ Chili Sauce. Canning is an all-day production, and making chili sauce is a vinegar, spice, and sugar up to your elbows olympic event. That memory being so personal — especially this year, I took up the season of the month of August. Through the encouragement of the workshop and the challenging of Breakout Room 13’s members, I wrote and rewrote versions of the poem.

The poem is (these poems are), what I understand to be an autumnal. It does tinge with nostalgia — longing can and fall does lend itself to the sentiment, and sentiments can take on manifold expressions.

Though I won’t read it for you here, I’ve included the first version of the poem at the bottom to satisfy any curiosity. But, I’ll read the latest version for you now. I say “latest” because, as one poet has said, poems set up like jello. And I agree they do take a final shape, but though they can congeal into a shape, they really don’t seem to ever stop wiggling.

So thank you poets. Thank you Rabbit Room. Thank you Poetry Pub. Thank you Breakout Room 13 to which I was lucky enough to be assigned.

The poem is so-far titled, August, though I am liking, Fall Again. It is dedicated to Jennifer Edwards who is my autumn delight.

August August smells like tomatoes stewing, Tangles in spider webs, Foams with hot-breaks like malt-ale brewing, Sounds evening with katydids. August clings damp with practice-field grass, Blows with a hurricane, Cools on the counter to mason jar snaps, Steams like afternoon sun-rain. August steps to a marching band’s beat Rolls ‘way with the first school bus Comes parent-proud but leaves bittersweet, Empty nests — now two of us. August grows you, summer now over, Teased gold in silhouette-light, Though wrinkled with years, my fall lover, You glow with autumn-delight.

Here’s the first version of the poem. It’s different but same.

August August smells like a peck of tomatoes Stewing in the kitchen’s largest stock pot Where the incense-air hangs heavy with vinegar. August tangles like spider webs, Walks you into memories plied with surprise— Wondering, How on earth did I get here? August strings with summer’s symphony; Cicadas tymbal while crickets and katydids Bow in the setting watermelon light. August clings like new-mowed grass, Morning-dew damp, stuck to skin and workout clothes When two-a-day football practice begins. August sounds like canning— Mason jars jostle in their boiling water bath, Lids seal summer with each Pip! Pop! Snap! August chases Bermuda Highs away; Untooths July’s dog days with hurricanes; Hushes the heat and breaks the drought. August marches to a drum line cadence The music of competition echos and calls From the stadium lights that are nearer than we know. August rolls like a first week school bus, Coming too early or late, ready or not, A quick stop at the corner, then gone. August schools. (Can there be too much of a good thing?) The math of weeks adds up to Labor Day When you change out the closet, close the pool till May. August teases with autumn light September’s coming that mirrors spring But now wiser, saving the best for last? August proves, begins to leaven Summer’s green, Ferments ordinary into fall’s wine-reds and gold, Bubbles up, rising now with different dreams. August brings us to our harvest fair evenings Where we walk midways with crow’s feet smiles Into The At Last — gathered up into the welcome arms Of Holiday.