The sun still sets fairly late—
Eight o’clock it’s usually dark.
Its rays are still warming, during the day,
But shadows are growing longer
And the wind under the shadows
Is growing colder and finer,
Weaving between the fibers
Of your jacket to sting your skin,
Like a thousand tiny needles.

Nippy days are becoming more frequent,
But not this one—yet.
It hasn’t changed in, oh, seven, eight years,
At least.  The sun shines down on us
Over the grass, the wind
Whistling across the flat field
As we played.

The TV stays on all afternoon,
When you’re home.  Always sounds, noise,
Cooking, hollering, announcers
Saying nothing just to talk.
Cut this day out,
Slide it forward five years,
Ten, whatever.
It still fits.

And when you’re not home,
It’s like it was so long ago,
Outside on a day when everything
Is changing, playing
And having fun.