This is me, every fall,
when summer has not yet
given up,

and neither have I,
oblivious to the complaints
of folks eager for the cool,

the leaf fall, the smoky
dusks of autumn. Me,
I’m cheering for these

balmy nights when I
still tiptoe into the pool
without a shiver,

grateful for the warmth
that is, like a done-with-me
lover on its way out the door

as I’m begging it to stay,
tugging on its shirt, never
wanting this to end.

But it does. It does.
I don’t have to like it,
but when I actually

have to don socks and
sweatshirts, I’ll sigh
and accept it, consoling

myself by scuffing
through leaf art arrayed
on sidewalks,

remembering warmer days
behind us and (not too far
away) ahead of us, too.