By now the summer has
Pushed the himalayas back
the thorns to brown
the leaves to dustiness
And everything else
mustered into the fruit.

Summer’s hand is gentle;
how it massages bramble
in its soft flesh palm
next to lifeline,
Adroitly working
even as those first low
clouds breach the horizon
to sweep in a whisper
of something else
Pleading for you
not to reach an arm in
or try to sidestep
between the canes
Like a legend passing
into another season.