flowing over

bee balm
rain, and heavy dew
full to bursting
brimming with tears
not quite the end of summer
not quite the beginning of fall

It’s too wet, too cool, too soon. Summer’s left rotting on the vine – tomatoes, squash, cantaloupe. It doesn’t matter that it wasn’t enough. They gave all they could give, and now it’s over. Mushrooms sprout in the midst of decay. There are signs of renewal – in the mint, the chives, in the weeds. But it’s mostly tired, second growth, pale reminders of what once was, or could have been, in spring.