August, and leaves
coming down already.
"Faces East," my father said,
"That's the key," and
stared as if he had never
been there before.
Cool white sun and
the clink of bottles.

10/20/2003

Author's Note: Written for a high school lit class. We had to pick a passage out of Montana 1948 and write a poem by going through and picking out words and phrases. We were allowed to change capitalization and punctuation, add up to three words of our own, and rearrange the order a bit. This is what I came up with (from page 41 of our book) and I actually rather like it.

Posted on 10/20/2007
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