This is not what summer is,
this charcoal world of hungry gray.
Cold blooded clouds,
misspent evening lasting
through the night.
Gray feathers entangled
in the bushes.
It’s only September 2,
I don’t have October’s sweaters out.
The trees are stubborn green,
and for all my complaining
I love this whisper of fall.
This moody love
turning under the blankets.
Two days ago we were in the tropics
languishing under the oppressive air.
Now its freshness
touches the cheek like an ardent hand,
like a fever passing,
and the world is changing
all the edifices of light
to subdued shadows,
making me feel young,
as if I were in love,
with the expectations
of my life,
soon to happen.