How is it
Summer can collect
In the back of your throat
Like too much of a good thing?

You would wash it away
To get on with what was
To drink in simple life

As if it were there for the taking.

But

It is only dust

And it will be.

No September rain
Ever stopped the falling of leaves
The withering of the garden
The shortening of breath

That comes with early night.

Thirst can ignite
Passion for a little while
And then it consumes itself.

Call it love.
Call it burning need.
Call it the fire that shapes your soul.

It is a brief thing.