the waning hours {of summer}

These are the waning hours of summer. 
It is 7:30 p.m. and the light is low. 
It is time to put thirty toes in the tub, but I will let them play a little longer. 
For my desire to be out is as great as theirs. 

Free in the grass, shouts and giggles.
I sit and watch with my pen. 
The crickets are waking up with their song, signaling the nearness of our slumber. 
The fireflies too, sharing their occasional glimmer.

The air is thick, but tolerable. 
This is the evening of summer.  
Maybe if I join them running in the grass I will forget for a moment that I can not make it last, that this season will change, and these toes so fervently running in dimly lit grass will travel in a multitude of new directions. 

And I will find myself sitting in different scenes.
Content and wishing at the same time. 

With gratitude,


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