by Autumn McClintock

Rain soaks, hangs low the branches—
leaves wet as the first time.
Three-legged dog takes it slow, knows
there’s no other getting there.
It wasn’t too cold or too warm
far east as we would go, admitting
we could not add a single hour.
Now I say to you, passing the bedroom door
this new evening,
even your shadow I love.

Autumn McClintock lives in Philadelphia, works at the public library, and recently has had the good fortune of having poems appear in Redivider, The Collagist, and LEVELER, among others; additional pieces are forthcoming in Carolina Quarterly, THRUSH, Drunken Boat, and RHINO. Her essay, “Responsible for Death” appears in the anthology The Poet’s Sourcebook, published by Autumn House Press (no relation) last year. She is a member of the poetry reading staff for Ploughshares.