At 8:37am last Tuesday, I smelled
the end of summer. It promised
to leave with lightning this year,
promised more rain. I believe.
I haven’t met a season I didn’t love,
that didn’t fill my lungs and keep
my heart beating. Last year, fall
promised to stay longer, my dearest friend.
Winter, though abrupt and often abrasive,
has apologized to me countless times
with quietly grey skies. Spring
is my little sister, a hen under one arm
and a handful of azaleas, crown of wisteria.
But summer brings the rain,
brings the storms, brings thunder.
Summer stews hurricanes and simmers
my skin, covers me in English ivy
so thick I can’t breathe.