The cold clutch of winter was not sudden this year;
instead, a long haul of end-of-summer pulses, lemon sun
toned down but set favorably for late-afternoon bike rides
with a wind jacket for the shadows.

I’ve memorized the patterns of despair in your behavior.
Too many hints, There’s smoke coming out of the old church.
I predicted that long before you painted it with sad oils,
the juvenile delinquents that play there after school
and camp out on week-ends, hiding from the law, their parents,
from each other.

I hide from my own children who play in the cornfield behind
our house. You’ve painted there, catching the sun rise up
out of the ground before the dirt has had a chance to cool off.
In the end everything burns up, burns down, goes up in smoke.
There’s seldom anything left. We start over with new seeds.

I’m not certain that I’m equipped to live an endless summer.
Some things are destined to burst into flames without provocation.