-This poem reflects on the unknowable last warm evening of summer, where an ordinary night becomes precious because endings often pass without announcing themselves.
The windows stay open after dark,
though something cooler waits beyond,
the curtains lift in gentle air,
and settle softly toward the room.
Outside, the porch still holds the day,
a little warmth beneath the hand,
while crickets gather in the grass,
and stars arrive above the trees.
No one can know which night will be,
the final one that feels like this,
with bare arms resting on the rail,
and summer breathing through the screen.
Perhaps that is the grace of it,
that endings rarely name themselves,
they simply give one evening more,
and trust that we were there to feel it.