Waning of summer month, end of beach weather month.
Back to work and back to school month.
A pattern, died in the wool.
Buckled-up books, backpacks, cardigans.
Skirts and stockings and
closed-up shoes that suddenly
feel too tight.
Early rising, hasty breakfasting—
Tie your shoes and
Don’t forget your lunch and
The bus is here!
Always I was running out the door, coat unzipped
Not ready (probably willfully so)
A stubborn child in the face of early mornings (i still am)
Autumn is pretty—
but it’s short-lived, and always
it carries blueprints of dark and winter.
I mourn the passing of beach days and long light
Sand in the pages of your book, and everywhere.
Sunstroke tiredness after days in the crashing waves.
like childhood itself.
Snufkin will break camp soon—
and the rain is coming.