And even now,
I can feel the sticky
sweetness
of last September
run down my fingers.

It trickles dark red and wild,
like the vine-ripened
grapes,
hanging from the white
picket fence,
I see from my window.

It flows down my arms
and abdomen
slowly, slowly, slowly
sinking into every inch
of my skin.

It colors me,
tan shades
from the summer sun,
and white-hot highlights,
from toothy smiles
and squinted eyes.

But summers were never
my season.

They were yours,
warm and shining,
always pushing
for more light,
longer days,
and just a little more time
than originally bargained for.

I can still see that fence,
proud, weathered,
criss-crossing with
vines and
birds’ nests
and the remnants
of a season since past.

And as the
harvest comes to
an end,
and the placid
cool of night
chills my bones,
I’ll learn
to be content
with the time
that’s gone by,
and the autumn
that is yet to come.