summer says she’s ready to go south now.
she is always a dramatic exit sort of season;
we are eased into her departure
by surprise whispers of cool breath on our necks
and deep blues
the deck tinged golden beneath bare toes
hopscotching across patches of sunlight
a soundtrack composed of windchimes
and slower traffic says it’s close to curtains,
and we are given notice by the sudden awareness
of more stars at night
and warmer sun in the dawn, more pinks and reds
than we thought possible.
she plays with you first, that summer devil diva, trickster,
caressing with the chill till you’re ready to close your eyes
and once you’re at rest– a slap of heat.
when finally she’s pissed at you
for not being able to let go, she storms off
and her wake is a freezing blast in the face one morning,
and you are left to ponder what the hell you did wrong this time
while contemplating christmas presents
as you turn to go back into the house again,
gathering your jacket a little closer around your shoulders
while anticipating coming snows and cocoa in the cold
with the slightest twinge of guilt.