Summer’s End

Like the wind, I, too, am furious

At summer’s end. Though fall

May seem a fever dream when

Swaddled in July, do not mistake

His pumpkin spice for kindness.

He is Hades’s right hand, leading

Persephone into the depths,

Us toward the brief, pale suns

Of winter. Yet rage will not halt

His steps, nor sorrow warm his

Heart, so take from him what

Gifts he brings: the crunch of

Leaves beneath your soles,

Nights of stars close as a kiss,

The primal flare of burning wood,

The nascent hope of coming spring.

9/20/2024