Summer’s last warmth,
round, humid days—

I hope it stays.

Been slipping past,
too fast.
No lakes,
no hikes,
no camping.

Just pulling weeds
and watering,
tending a small
new forest.

Slow it down
before it all
turns to brown.

Before green
fades from the grass.

Before blossoms dry
and fall off
to seed the ground.

The fleabane now
stands so tall
at the patio corner;
little white
blossoms rocking
in the breeze.

I can’t cut them down.
Not yet. Not yet.