Past the Cusp of Summer

 August 2006

 Just past the cusp of summer,

The sunlight slices at a wider angle

Through the soft cushion of cool air.

It is still warm to the skin.

The daisies are saying goodbye dryly.

The last peony is browning and limp.

A fresh dampness arises from the grass.

It mixes with the smell of the sun-drenched wood of the windowsill.

A small plane drones.

There’s an unmistakable slowing down.

When I take time to notice,

I will see flies

Bumbling slowly,

Easily crushed by a hand.

I know from watching, listening, smelling,

As year spirals upon year,

That Summer is folding in upon herself,

Taking her warm wings south,

The iridescent ones,

The ones that formed a portal to

All the faerie kingdom only on Midsummer Night.

— Pamela Ann McDowell Saylor