Summer's Dust

Summer's winding down in dry decay.
Horizon shimmering with hazy heat
hot dust as fine as flour on my feet,
one final trace of summer's last fine day.

If it were mine to will this season stay
or make it come again, in quick repeat--
would I let winter come, accept defeat
or stand my ground and chase the cold away?

O let it go. The fields are dry for burning
and on the ocean, rainstorms wait their birth.
The seasons change again, as change they must.

For fallen leaves are only pages turning
and summer dies to bring rain to the earth
and winter's tears will water summer's dust.