The Last Day

It is the last hot day
of a long, borrowed summer
and we are waiting for the storm
we see coming.

This is the last day
before we go.

We are sitting on the dock
and the water has
the low, seaweed smell
of a dry August.

I have let my wine grow warm
and I cannot look at the truth in you.

You watch through your sunglasses
as the line of dark clouds
gathers over the treeline
on the far side of the lake.

I think that there should be
something I can say,
but the words are dry in my mouth.

You check your watch.

This is the last hour
before the storm.

The last day
before we leave.

-Copyright Kay Winter

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