By RAHN ADAMS
The end of the summer / carries with it a feeling / of ambivalence toward nature, / also toward the passage of time.
“Where did these last weeks go?” / I ask myself and others, / then add for good measure, / “The 4th feels like yesterday.”
“It must have been the heat,” I say, / “or maybe the humidity / that shifted time into high gear / and stepped on the gas.”
But remembering those sultry nights / with windows wide open / and recalling the sea’s heartbeat / in the crashing surf
Make the end of the season / the first and last reason / I try to understand / all the time we spend in houses built on sand.