These are the last lazy mornings with room for hours of leisure and mugs of coffee long cool before the afternoon rounds. They are peach cobbler evenings, as the light dwindles and the neighborhood treks outdoors to catch the last of laughter, tossed around, the last of the evening, held tight and stuffed in our pockets. We go barefoot and dodge sprinklers making their tch-tch-tch sounds and we sit on the porch and close our eyes. Already, it smells like expectation and cinnamon creeps in with her powdery fingers and we feel the world stretching and broadening and changing. We grip summer tighter. We take her by the hands and spin her around, beg her not to go. She has a younger brother, his name is flush, he is chasing the leaves and brushing them red. Summer runs after him, we run after her, we collapse into autumn and wonder when the trees changed color, why the ground is cold under our toes, if the wind was always so sharp.
words inspired by the beautiful mollie