The season that peeks its head
Through the doors of summer
Then darts back out again,
And the wood nearly closes on your fingers
For trying to catch it.
The season of jeans and T-shirts
And pajama pants that feel like bliss,
Of the loving evening sun,
Which tucks in the mountains, blankets them
In the perfect mix of light and shadow.
Of almosts, hinted promises, of in-betweens,
And of days that pass too fast
Like the wind that swirls by,
Overturning every leaf on the trees
To shuffle a deck of palest green.
Of fresh vegetables and dying leaves,
Tire swings, rakes, bare feet,
Backpacks, books, new shoes,
Of childhood and growing up
All at once.
My friend once told me,
“Sometimes I get nostalgic for fall,”
And I have that same feeling
Even when fall
Has already arrived.
