According to the calendar,

It’s summer still,

But the breeze last week advised

Otherwise.

Soft and cool

She whispered across my cheeks

“It’s time . . .”

And it wasn’t just me she told

But the leaves and the horses and the butterflies

By now, they all know

And soon the woods will turn every color

Before it all falls away to black and white.

Nature’s empty room—

Winter.

I have been doing more and talking less

These past several months

But along with the weather

I can feel myself about to turn,

cool, and shift

closer

to the words I need to write.