It was though we we were dying over.
Failing to savor the salt of past summer
Days naked within the scented lilies,
Entwined languorously under large maple,
Or trading soft, insistent kisses,
Wet and sloppy, dripping portico
Pounded by evening pour,
Shy swallows watching – cornered.
Taking up spent tomato vines;
Turning under the rotting lettuce;
The smells of death oddly sweet, yet
Both seemed so happy to finish
Their struggle in this scorched soil.
A large Hornworm, pale emerald and fat,
Rears up defiantly on the last brown vine.
He knew green was a only a temporary color.