It's that time again for the ghost to return.
Berrytouch season,
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.