Our summer ended while I was in the shower,
Bent over, scrubbing my legs, thinking about how
Just last evening I watched you sit on the patio, tearing
Charcoal-grilled chicken meat off the thigh. But that
Was yesterday. It is night, now, and summer is ending,
Or wait--has ended, or maybe you’re right--our Indian summer
Is just around the river bend, on its way over the mountains,
Getting ready to enter our hot lungs that make us exhale
Differently, now, tonight, yesterday, today, whenever, forever--
Because we experienced this sacred summer, together.
Fiction, poetry, and all that good stuff . . .