08/31/2026
✨
Death comes for Summer
in August.
He finds her
in the garden,
barefoot,
with blackberry juice
staining her fingers.
Not yet,
she tells him.
The tomatoes
still split
their red skins
in the heat.
The bees
still strain under
the heavy weight
of pollen.
Somewhere,
a child is running barefoot
through a sprinkler,
believing faithfully
in an endless summer.
But Summer has always known
that Death would come.
Stay,
she begs the sun.
Just a little longer.
But already
it is lowering itself
behind the trees—
earlier now,
earlier.
Death does not hurry her.
Together,
they watch the maples
set themselves ablaze.
Above them,
the geese cross
the purpling sky,
calling to one another
through the dark.
Summer listens.
Where are they going?
she asks.
South,
Death says.
Will they come back?
Eventually.
Will I?
she asks softly.
Yes,
Death says.
Then why must I go?
Death looks at her—
at the blackberry stain
darkening her fingers,
at the last light
caught in her hair,
at the fields
still warm
from the day.
Because you cannot stay
and remain
what you are.
You will return,
Death says.
But never
as this Summer.
Never this light.
Never these blackberries
heavy on this vine.
Never this child
beneath this August sun.
The world will have
other evenings.
Other fields.
Other children
running barefoot
through the water.
But this one—
Death looks toward
the sinking sun.
This one
belongs only
to now.
And for the first time,
Summer understands
what the child
does not—
that an hour
becomes precious
when you understand
there will never be
this hour
again.
So she spends
the last of herself
recklessly.
Gold on the fields.
Gold warming the floors.
Gold trembling
through the trees.
Until the whole world
is shining
with the terrible beauty
of something
that cannot stay.
Then Death
holds out his hand.
Summer looks once more
at the child,
still running
through the falling water,
still believing
the warm days
will go on forever.
She smiles.
Let them believe
a little longer,
she says,
and takes his hand.
—Caroline Confer
