ode to summer

last day of summer, leaves drooping in the heat the garden tank that's dry (again) nights spent hand watering cold bathwater, dusting eggs, spiders on the wall, a dead snake in the yard, and grasshoppers everywhere (even in the toilet bowl) you are the speedy crawls and cheeky smiles of a baby the fantastical stories of a small boy sea caves in bed, kittens asleep by the door, sheep bleating in the paddock, happy visits from kin -

you are the time two weeks ago after we put the boys to bed, my sister and I headed for the hills (my closest neighbours, in granite and grass strewn garb) I captured with lens that afternoon golden light her beautiful face in the breeze - we feel the silk soft seeds of nettles, the smell - so sweet, of a patch of red clover, we walked the narrow trails the cows made, over rocks decorated in lichen - sage, lime green, slate grey, tin roof red at the highest point up we can see out for miles in every direction - forest, pasture, winding road, I come up here, I say, to feel small, to listen and pray and be blown by the wind -

this last day of summer is a mystery that comes around every four years, is a thin copper line on the horizon, moths around the light bulb, spiders spinning, early morning light, dry hands and heels, wind howling at night, the cracked earth around the dam, chickens resting in the shade - seven yellow squash on the table, a bowl of tomatoes -

I don't feel it now, but I know we'll miss you once you're gone.