Suffocating heat by mid-afternoon,
barefoot relief by dusk.

3 am – an ease arrives, just a breath, just enough…

7 am, the smallest delicious murmur
of autumn’s cool reveals itself.

The year has turned,
and despite a forecast of triple digits today,
I can already smell
musky late October rain approaching.

That’s the thing
about the end of summer: it’s achingly familiar.

It’s predictable
and makes no apologies for being the same —
year after year after year.

But I am not the same,
nor is my heart.

And this too,
is achingly familiar.

© martha lee phelps