Even the rising temperature
of this day that’s predicted to
overtop the century mark again

when we so much wish it
wouldn’t. It might not, after all.
We can’t perfectly predict

the thorniness of what’s coming.
But we can pause, open the door
and walk into the warming yard

to look for what persists, even
now, nearing the end of summer
when so much has finished.

The purples springing
from the green bits in the
heart-shaped pot on the deck.

The wide-open crimson roses,
velvety courtesans flaunting
their delicate centers

before the ripening sun,
beckoning: Here we are.
Lean in. Inhale deeply.

Let us fall into your
open hands.