The Last Bloom of Summer
Your petals, white as quiet skies,
Unfold against the green that dies.
A fleeting torch, a gentle flame,
That whispers summer’s parting name.
The cicadas drone their tired song,
The days grow short, the nights grow long.
And though you shine with tender grace,
The chill is creeping to this place.
Soon frost will take the tender stem,
The garden bare, the earth grown dim.
Yet in this moment, pure and true,
The world still lingers, bright, in you.
So bloom, dear flower, while you may,
Your beauty warms the fading day.
Though seasons turn and time must sever,
This glow will live in memory forever.
Regret
I spent most of this summer inside, convincing myself that flowers would wait for me. “They’re not going anywhere,” I thought, sipping coffee and scrolling through the same tired news cycle. Meanwhile, the flowers outside were staging the most outrageous photoshoots—posing in the sunlight, dripping with morning dew, bees buzzing around them like adoring paparazzi.
And where was I? On the couch, promising myself I’d “get out tomorrow.” But tomorrow turned into next week, and next week slid into “eh, maybe when it cools off a bit.”
Now, here we are. The flowers are packing up their colors, slamming the door on summer, and muttering, “Well, maybe he’ll get it right next year.” I finally grabbed my camera, pointed it at this last stubborn bloom, and it looked at me like, Really? Now you show up?
It’s a bittersweet joke: the best flowers I’ve shot all season are the ones waving goodbye. I guess I’ll spend fall and winter looking at the photos I didn’t take, and waiting like a guilty friend for spring to forgive me with another bloom.
