Most of the summer’s bedrooms now are empty;
stealthy ocher claims the neighbour trees:
evening’s amber skies complete the picture
in silence quite impossible before.
The screen doors used to slam too loud too often;
now insufficient are the outs and and ins:
the toys that filled all passage now are silent,
and silence makes these beauties seem obscene.
I wish the end of summer the beginning,
but lived for wishes push our lives away:
so I must take from this the precious instants
and of them make a dream, the cold to stay.