The Taste of Summer's Last Breath
I.
August whispers her farewell
In honeysuckle spells,
Each evening shorter than the last,
As golden light rebels
Against the coming autumn tide—
A sweetness that compels
The tongue to taste what cannot stay,
What memory foretells.
II.
The garden's final offerings
Hang heavy on the vine,
Tomatoes warmed by fading sun
Like droplets crystalline,
Their ripeness now a desperate thing,
A last-ditch border line
Between the seasons' shifting dance,
Time's slow decline.
III.
Cicadas sing their ending hymn,
Each note a copper bell
That rings across the drowsy air
Where summer's stories dwell.
Their wings are thin as memories,
Each chirp a farewell
To days that stretched like taffy pulled
Too far to tell.
IV.
The swimming pool exhales its clouds
Into the cooling dark,
Where children's laughter echoes still
Like traces of a spark
That lit the endless afternoons
And left its watermark
On skin now fading from the brown
That summer's touch did mark.
V.
Ice cream drips slower from the cone,
As if it understands
These moments must be savored now,
Like hour glass's sands
That measure out the sweetness left
In summer's last demands—
Each melting drop a blessing passed
Through sticky hands.
VI.
The screen door's slam sounds different now,
A more decisive close,
As if it knows its dancing days
Are ending with the rose
That drops its petals one by one,
While evening's shadow grows
Across the porch where fireflies
Once danced in rows.
VII.
The hammock holds the impression
Of days stretched out like dreams,
Where clouds were read like storybooks
And nothing was as seems—
Now empty in the gathering dusk,
Its rope no longer gleams
With possibilities that once
Flowed bright as streams.
VIII.
The garden hose coils tired now,
Its silver arc grown thin,
No longer rainbow-catching proud
Or children's summer grin—
Just morning dew to wash away
Where dust has settled in,
Like age upon the memories
Of what has been.
IX.
The lawn chairs fold their weary arms,
Accept their coming rest,
As spiders spin September's lace
Where summer warmth was blessed.
Each morning dew grows heavier,
Each bird's abandoned nest
Tells stories of the fledglings gone
On autumn's quest.
X.
The clothesline sways with lighter loads,
No beach towels bright with sun,
No swimsuits dripping chlorine dreams
Of races lost and won—
Just sheets that snap like calendar
Pages coming undone,
As summer slips between the threads
Of days outrun.
XI.
The sidewalk's chalk art fades to ghosts
Of mermaids, stars, and ships,
As evening rain comes earlier
And daylight slowly slips
Away like ice cream memories
From sunburned fingertips—
The taste of freedom lingering
On children's lips.
XII.
The baseball glove grows stiff with lack
Of catches in the yard,
Its leather sighing memories
Of evenings played so hard
The streetlights seemed surprised to find
The players still on guard
Against the night that now comes swift
Without regard.
XIII.
The bicycle tire tracks grow faint
Upon the dusty drive,
Where freedom's wheels once carved their paths
And kept the day alive
With endless possibilities—
Now paths that don't survive
The coming of the shorter days
And autumn's dive.
XIV.
The porch swing's creak tells different tales
In August's waning light,
Of conversations drawing close
As day surrenders might
To earlier and earlier
Surrenders to the night—
Each shadow growing longer in
Time's quiet flight.
XV.
The window screens hold smoky hints
Of barbecue's last call,
Where neighbors gathered, glasses raised
To toast the summer's fall—
Now evening air grows sharper as
The crickets softly crawl
Through grass that knows the changing time
And autumn's thrall.
XVI.
The final watermelon splits
With less emphatic sound,
Its sweetness tinged with something like
Regret for what's not found—
The casual abundance of
July's unlimited round
Of sticky chins and spitting seeds
Upon the ground.
XVII.
The morning glories close their eyes
A minute sooner now,
As if they sense the shortening
Of day's extended bow—
Their purple faces turning from
The sun's decreasing vow
To warm the hours stretching out
Behind the plow.
XVIII.
The last tomato sandwich tastes
Of summer's final sigh,
Mayo and salt on kitchen bread,
A simple last goodbye
To flavors that will hibernate
Until next July—
When garden vines will reach again
Toward azure sky.
XIX.
The sprinkler's arc moves slower through
The evening's golden dust,
Like time itself is thickening
With summer's fading thrust—
Each droplet holding memories
Of children's endless must
Run through it one more time before
Day's final gust.
XX.
The thunderstorms roll different now,
More precious in their song,
As if they know their drama must
Not tarry here too long—
Their lightning more spectacular
For being less among
The evenings growing cooler as
Night grows strong.
XXI.
The barefoot days are numbered now,
Each step a conscious choice
To feel the earth while still it holds
The warmth that did rejoice
In endless June and July days—
Now grass has found its voice
To whisper autumn's coming in
A different poise.
XXII.
The last peach splits its sunset heart,
Surrenders golden core
To hungry hands that understand
There won't be many more
Such moments of perfection in
This season's dwindling store
Of sweetness saved from summer's bright
And burning shore.
XXIII.
The final campfire flickers low,
Marshmallows toasted slow,
As stories stretch like shadows cast
By flames' decreasing glow—
Each ember holding memories
Of nights that seemed to flow
Endless as stars above the heads
Of those below.
XXIV.
The screen door slams one final time
On summer's fading scene,
As crickets sing their lullaby
To all that might have been—
The fireflies ascending to
Their starry death, unseen,
While autumn whispers promises
Of gold and green.
XXV.
So taste it now, this last sweet breath
Of summer's lingering kiss,
Hold close the fleeting flavors of
These days we'll surely miss—
For in the ending lies the seed
Of next year's promised bliss,
When summer once again will teach
Us what this is.
For now, we fold the season small
And tuck it safe away,
In pockets lined with memories
Of each sun-blessed day—
Until the wheel has turned once more
And brings again the play
Of endless summer afternoons
That cannot stay.
Yet in this ending lies the truth
That makes each summer sweet:
The knowledge that it cannot last
Makes every day complete,
Each moment precious for the fact
That it must retreat—
Like waves upon the August shore
Where seasons meet.
So breathe it in, this final taste
Of summer's fleeting grace,
And hold it like a firefly
Cupped gentle in this space
Between the seasons' turning dance,
This brief embrace
Where summer's last breath lingers on
Time's tender face.
