And just like that, summer was gone.
One day we were still in the high-twenties and I was debating another swim like this; the next morning I sipped my coffee inside and mourned the passing of summer that shockingly occurred overnight.
It’s improbable that summer will return up here. There’s a cool in the air that bodes: winter is coming.
Thank goodness, then, for vestiges of summer. Peaches. Pears. Plums. I’m not yet ready for wintery fare of baked goods, that’s for sure. A few more juicy bites are called for and, thankfully, still available.
ps. I found this poem, called Plums:
They’re Santa Rosas, crimson, touched by blue,
with slightly mottled skin and amber flesh,
transparently proposing by their hue
the splendor of an August morning, fresh
but ruddy, ripening toward fall.—”So sweet,
so cold,” the poet said; but this one’s tart,
its sunny glow perfected in deceit,
as emulation of a cunning heart.
I eat it anyway, until the pit
alone remains, with scattered drops of juice,
such sour trophies proving nature’s wit:
appearances and real in fragile truce.
-Catherine Savage Brosman