Slowly, the Slipping of Summer

Slowly, the Slipping of Summer Air moves slowly through the open door then begs the corner of my eye to watch as a small thread from a spider's web turns into a gold chain even as I look away feeling like I can't bear to know how fragile this one thing is and how carelessly it can be destroyed but I have already seen it connecting the wooden door frame to the bookcase where in one corner a book is wrapped up in patient silk sewn up so tight lace fingers of it hold its pages in place I see a fluff of feather there caught fast by the delicate strings cast across the air and taken by the sun like a piece of art holding mighty a drift from a molting summer bird I watch a hammock swing macraméd and filled gracefully with wind then set on fire with sunlight and I am captured in the whim that it is marking a path to the place of bare feet and the sound of summer's children in the yard gone too soon and replaced with slamming car doors and crows quarreling in the shadows of morning How slowly air moves into the voices of the trees Over my shoulder I sense time moving made from the slipping of summer even as I turn wanting to catch the first squeal from a cool-down sprinkler's child and only find the sound of leaves ------------------------- Published in Pirene's Fountain, October 2009, Volume 2 : Issue 6