the brilliance of Summer
grays when longer shadows
creep slowly eastward
and the webs of the banana spider
blow hapless in cooling
breezes. the telltale zigzags
stand as sign posts pointing
the way back, for weary travelers
not yet ready to borough under
the thick wet quilt of oak and elm
and cherry and pecan leaves,
plastered into calico splotches heavy
with cold rain and liturgical demands
and the coming Great Slumber.
Summer must rot. And will.