The fact that summer is half over
is ruining my summer.
The mere thought sends a wave of autumnal
heaviness over me,
a blanket of wet leaves and
leaden skies, a premonition
of snow. The waves at the beach
thicken and slow into slurry ice.
The fireflies twinkling will
grow fainter and fainter until
they go south with the birds.
It’s getting closer and closer
with every distant clap
of thunder and every
clear, white sky day,
with every Mexican popsicle and
thrashing game of beach volleyball.
I need to wring the last drop of warm sunshine,
wade out to the second sandbar,
dazzle into the lacy surf,
taste the ripe berries, and
let them burn on my tongue.
|On the Beach, 1929, Chicago. Gregory Orloff, Art Institute of Chicago|