the air of late summer

The air of late summer hovers in bushes and under pine boughs.
It creeps through the frost-touched garden and ransoms the last tomatoes.
It shimmers in the noonday sun, shot through with pockets of cricket song,
while the crickets themselves crouch serenely in the roots of dry grass
to escape the impending frost.

The air of late summer.
It smells of cut hay, the skin of apples, and root vegetables.
Children inhale it by the lungful as they put their summer games to bed.
Mothers meet it forcefully by emptying drawers of cotton shirts
and shaking out woolen sweaters.
Young men stack wood in the shed while sawdust gathers on their cuffs and collars.
No one says much. They go about their business.

The air of late summer drapes a sweet sadness over the door posts
and elicits from every gate latch an elegy.
Summer is not dead yet; we breathe her perfume and know she is in the parlor.
We do not hear her voice, yet we piece together her words.
She is at the neighbors saying her good-byes; we hear her teacup rattle in the saucer.
Her carriage stands empty in the drive.

We speak loudly against the long shadows
and work outside long past the shrouding dusk.
We revel in one last warm afternoon while sprawling with abandon on the still-warm ground.
We hold the hands of those we love
in order to feel the course of their blood.