Indian Summer
I don’t mind the slow stretch
between heat (and more heat)
and peace, holding out like string
in perpetual free fall down spines
not quite loose-leaf, when the chill
hasn’t yet come.
Reading the days when it’ll be cold,
it’s also a prayer for immortality,
to write this summer into a novel,
story with no end (amen) to ride out
any inkling of a fantasy, hands touched
by paper and pen, perhaps even skin
by an Indian summer.
— The Finicky Cynic
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