-This poem reflects on the first cooler mornings of late summer, when the season remains abundant but the body quietly senses that change has begun.
The window wakes to gentler air,
a coolness resting on the sill,
while curtains move with lighter breath,
and dawn comes quietly through the room.
The grass holds dew a little longer,
the garden waits beneath the gray,
and every leaf seems newly washed,
by something softer than the rain.
Bare feet retreat from porch step stone,
hands gather warm around a cup,
small instincts noticing the change,
before the mind has named the season.
No summer thing has vanished yet,
the fields are full, the vines still heavy,
but morning carries one clear note,
that fullness too must learn to turn.