Not Indian, for good reasons,
though I like the notion that the name
for this in-between season possibly
came from the Narragansett people
who believed that these distinctly
un-fallish days were delivered by
a warm wind from the great spirit
Cautantowwit.

This second summer, after the first one,
flushes with temperate days still warm
enough to coax leggy cosmos into doing
the can-can and prompts what surely
must be the last hollyhocks of the year
to burst like pink boutonnieres
destined for young men’s jackets.

I am happy to slip on flip flops and
aloha shirt, to head into the back yard
where it is warmer than inside the house,
which seems to have gotten the message
about cooler nights. But out here
a shaggy-headed rose nods along
with the geraniums and canary yellow
zinnias eager for a drink, so I pick up
the hose, wondering how much longer
I will need to water—then shake
my head at such heresy.

Too soon I’ll be inside looking out,
wishing for second summer days
like these, lingering over the persistent
flowers I sprinkle now, scuffing
through fallen leaves wearing
their crunchy veined smiles,
the old sycamore already growing
next year’s greenness deep inside
itself.