Perhaps it will be a fall garden. Things are slow blooming this year, although the season started early. Already yellow leaves are sprinkled here and there on green grass. Strange winds come out of nowhere, a prelude to the season change.
Fire weed will most likely sprout up any day now, in summers’ final blaze of glory. Only August and I have turned the heat on twice. Hope reigns supreme for Indian summer, a reprieve, grace for the undeserving.
One more chance is all I ask. Another sunset, it’s warmth on my shoulders. Let me breathe one
more warm gentle summer breeze, through my bedroom window, with whispers skimming the sheets.