-This poem reflects on the physical and emotional traces summer leaves behind, suggesting that a season’s passing does not diminish us when its beauty, nourishment, and memory have become part of who we are.
A few red tomatoes on the sill,
dry basil hanging from the beam,
the dust of fields along our shoes,
a faded towel beside the door.
The garden gives its final herbs,
the orchard grass holds fallen fruit,
and on the porch, beneath the chair,
one cicada shell grips the wood.
These are not ruins of the season,
nor evidence of something lost,
but traces of a life lived fully,
small proofs of all the light that was.
We keep the sweetness in a jar,
the seeds in envelopes for spring,
the memory of warm evening air,
and golden fields behind our eyes.
Perhaps this is what summer gives,
beyond the harvest, heat, and rain,
the knowledge that what passes through us,
can leave us fuller when it goes.