Poet Laureate of Virginia

October, 2024

The reds finish first—maple, dogwoods, and sullen oaks—
My husband inherits the harder work, so he trims the grass
Back for the last time and scrapes all the edges clean
Along the flower beds. He rakes gravel, leaves, and
Typical debris, but this time he sees other castaways.
Plugged with dirt, twenty years old and older, these
Are a father’s time-torn tears scattered across the yard.

Haphazard soldier-men face forward, weapons frozen
For plastic action. Pre-shaped for riding horseback, one heads
West while another stands stick-straight enough to break,
Pointing his fixed bayonet into sky’s uncertain glass. The last one
Crawls like a dog on its belly. Digging his rifle into the mud,
He sneaks behind enemy lines. Are you ready for a surprise attack?
There is a muddy pig, too, and a pale green roaring lion.

He finds a dingy domino playing eight just like Fibonacci found it.
One and one make two; two and one make three; three and two
Make five; five and three make eight. He rakes up filthy ivory
Buttons and one shiny Mancala bead. There is a blood-red mask,
Fit for that interchangeable lot of Halo heroes simply lost in space;
G. I. Joe’s chopped up torso; and a brown Matchbox Chevy Blazer,
Somehow stuck in a rut for over twenty years now and still no rust!

This fall, he cries brittle tears. These are his children, running across
Raked grass, running head-first into October’s fleck-painted wind.

Mattie Quesenberry Smith