It’s been a while.
Summer flares in rebellion to autumn’s swift approach, and children’s days become a little shorter, a little less exciting (except for those who need not be taught).
For a season of death, fall brings such welcome tidings as sunburnt memories ferment like fine champagne.
“For the Lilies”
As I write this you lie sleeping in the room beside me.
A few days from now you’ll be gone once again, and I don’t know what I’ll do.
We always think we have just a little longer, even with the finish line in sight.
And though already you’ve gone, I still linger each time I pass by your door.
I dream as the sun rises because I can choose when to tend,
The furtive plowman digs deep, sowing victory into dead ends.
And as I plan another dozen summers sipping wine with dear friends,
Somewhere, pulsing deep, the heartache still mends.