Late Summer by Lynne Cattafi

On late summer nights I sit near the open window

so I can hear the tree frogs.

They know autumn is coming,

understand they might hold on a bit longer 

if they are a little more stubborn, a little tougher.

Lately they sound like guiros played by old men:

careful, slow, soft.

Summer is 

unexpected moments like these:

warm tomatoes on the vine, 

orange and pink wildflowers on the side 

of the highway, exultant amidst the smog, 

a child learning how to ride a bicycle, 

another braving the deep end of the pool 

for the first time. This is what life becomes. 

Once it was faraway places stamped on a passport, 

or a new boy, or too much wine on a work night. 

Now when the tree frogs sing it sounds like they say

winter, winter, winter.

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Lynne Cattafi teaches English at a private school in New Jersey. When she's not teaching her students to love writing poetry and reading books, she enjoys drinking coffee, building Lego cities from scratch with her children, walking her beagle, and reading historical fiction and mysteries. Her poetry has appeared in Elephants Never, Marias at Sampaguitas, The Wellington Street Review and Vita Brevis. She can be found on Twitter at @lynnecatt.