The Turning

Summer slips quiet as breath,

sun-warmed skin already cooling,

the laughter of July dissolving into the hush of September.

I try to hold it;

the long golden evenings, the lazy heat heavy on my shoulders, the cicadas singing endlessly, but it unravels,

sliding through my fingers like sand I can’t command to stay.

The leaves begin to burn,

not with fire, but with the slow surrender of green to amber, to rust, to ash.

Each leaf, a clock face ticking down.

Each leaf, a reminder that nothing lingers.

Time quickens in the turn.

Days shrink, nights deepen, and the sky leans closer, as if urging me forward even while I am still trying to swallow the last taste of summer.

I want to shout, slow down, but the seasons don’t listen.

The seasons move faster than grief, faster than memory, faster than even love can keep.

And all I can do is stand here, ankle deep in fallen leaves,

watching the light bend away,

trying to memorize the feeling of warmth as it slips into shadow.