Turn and take the summer with you to its fall.
Take away its outlook and its need–
the message of the sun at hilltop–
and hand it to the courier, who waits
to run the valleys and the shade
and hand it in good season
to its heir.
It has blessed you, truly once again
but summer goes its way, it must,
and craggy hands of autumn
seduce you fresh with promises
filled in blinding summer light,
unnoticed, not ahead.
Ahead lies cold incrimination
that faults you yet again
for missing twice the splendour.
Do not rush estival’s cool end,
for behind her is the icy breath of winter.
Hold her hot against your form
and let her breathe her lovefire on you
and make you sweat
beneath her crushing heat.
Hold her as you know
that she’ll be gone soon,
and in her place will be the snow.
Copyright © 2004 Peter J. Gorham