Summer is my favorite season. I always mourn its passing–but this year I was especially sad to feel the chill creeping into the air. This summer’s halcyon days contained rather more doctor appointments and physical therapy sessions, and far less sun and sand, than I had expected. But just when I was almost resigned to the coming of fall, we received a blaze of warm days that felt like a sly and special gift. I went for a run with my dad on an 85-degree afternoon, with spurts of gold leaves scattering beneath my feet while he recited Emily Dickinson’s poem about this time of year. Her words echoed in my mind through the glowing days of our Indian summer.
These are the days when Birds come back —
A very few — a Bird or two —
To take a backward look.
These are the days when skies resume
The old — old sophistries of June —
A blue and gold mistake.
Oh fraud that cannot cheat the Bee —
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief.
Till ranks of seeds their witness bear —
And softly thro’ the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf.
Oh Sacrament of summer days,
Oh Last Communion in the Haze —
Permit a child to join.
Thy sacred emblems to partake —
Thy consecrated bread to take
And thine immortal wine!