It's that time again for the ghost to return.
when single grapes swell, begin to bunch.
The heavy sun has tilted, spinning lower,
and quail sift the lawn for seed.
Silvery-orange tomatoes, just out
of reach, in a gibbous moon.
My almost-love, my almost-life,
it's when you chose to lose me.
A big clumsy flicker blunders
through the ash tree and I crave
his yellow, his tapping beak! I'm too young
for summer to complete, but the calendar
shows I'm twelve years late.
The ghost arrives on time.
I pour us both a glass of dark Syrah.
First published in Riven.