The sound in his voice is deep,
The pitch in her laugh is lulled,
infused, seasoned by the day,
hollowed and then filled
by tears of the weeping sun.
We arrive in ourselves to admire the end of summer.
We drown our desires and inspire our
ideas in white wine, green grass, shaded patches,
blankets-hand-made, and company—the skin beyond our own.
We swim in the riches of what we see.
We become the mapping of
I-am-ready for something new,
when green leaves become something
old, and fall
like hearts do.
My soul is reaching for summer
when it fades in its passionate intensity.
It is the same as the hairs on my arms that stand up
to catch a moment as it evaporates.
My skin is pricked, my thoughts are coined.
The end of summer is the exude of the sunflower
Passionately black at its center.
Smooth to the end.
- Tara-Lynn Nicholas