The turning of the air is slight

The turning of the air is slight.
Summer begins to let go–
its grip
no longer visible on skin

no longer restrictive of breath.

The complete turn will occur:
the air no longer stale, but
revived.
The outward changes are easy to embrace.

The inward changes churn.
Home surfaces:
my childhood home,
my father’s house,
a place.

I am pulled close

yet distant.

Existing in excerpts of memory:

the expanse of field, wheat or corn,
stretched open and humbled
at the foot of blue mountains;

colors bend in reverence to each other

lilies of the valley suspended in perfect separation
growing wild behind the garage,
the white blossoms peep through
long grasses underfoot and
undiscovered

How much time does it take
for the loss of a thing to be noticed?
I am left with fragments:
unable to return,

unable to remain.

Summer relinquishes what it cannot be.

The air turns,
I cannot help but feel the ache.
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2 Comments

  1. Jonathan

    This is an outstanding poem that really made me reflect on my own memories of summers and seasons long passed. “ How much time does it take for the loss of a thing to be noticed?”—this line hit me hard. Great work, Deirdre! I’ll be looking forward to reading more of your work!

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