I have always said this—
I love the change of seasons.
And I mean it.
But just now I am clinging to Summer
by its ankles as it pivots toward the door
and leaves the room.
Wait! Don't go yet!
I call as I tighten my grip around its shin bone,
and it pulls me across the floor,
bunching up the summer rug beneath me,
the green grass, snapdragons and sprawled out oregano now in folds.
It's about to drag me through
crunchy leaves and spiked acorns and withering herbs.
So I plant my feet flatly against the door frame,
knees locked and jaw set,
as Summer shrugs and shakes me off
with a fling of its foot.
And empty handed, I reach out with splayed fingers,
and I shout one last time,
Wait! Not yet!
Just one more day.
Last week, Ohio experienced one of the hottest days of the summer, and then the next day we woke up to autumn with fall temperatures and rain and cloudy skies, and the forecast for the forseable future seems destined to plow straight ahead with no looking back.
My orchestra's outdoor Labor Day concert has been canceled, my swimming pool ripples without a soul to plunge into it and I've begun to wear scarves and socks again. And shoes. It was just a couple of weeks ago that I lamented I would soon have to start wearing shoes again. Well, the time has come to lace them up or slip them on, and there's not a thing I can do to stop it.
Last night, Husband and I and a couple of friends did one last summer thing—we went to an Indians game in Cleveland—and we wore jackets and scarves and long pants as we sat in the chilly lake-effected night breeze. It looked like this—a farewell to Summer.