Another summer gone
Never to return
With its color, its fragrances, Its sensual promise.
I wonder sometimes if all this
is real or if, perchance, it’s
but a figment of my imagination.
Because, if it is real
Why does it tease me and,
Like so many memories of the past, Leave me before I’m ready to let go.
And if, as part of life,
It is so good—
Why must it end at all.
Why must the skies darken early
Why must leaves fall.

Some like it that way.
But I know this. The sounds, the smells,
the laughter of children at play—are priceless.
None of it can ever be recreated.
And the summer to come—will never be the
same.
Yet, already
I grow impatient
Marking time.

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