We waited as the darkness of winter relented.
We waited longing for leaves, for warm nights sleeping with the window open, insect songs and the smell of honeysuckle.
We cleaned debris from the deck, envisioning friends in lounge chairs, sipping iced tea.
We cleaned perennial beds, searching for green.
We stacked the leftover firewood, winter's detritus in a dustpan swept up like the icy wind.
Summer was born, a painful birth with pangs of thunder.
When summer was new, we went for walks, caught fireflies, cranked up the grill.
As she grew, with heat and humidity, we ran to hide in air-conditioned rooms, and we forgot.
Then, while we weren't looking, summer leaked through our lives like water through our hands.
Now its dead, ended, not a trace remaining.
The block party, the week-end trips, Saturday afternoon cook-outs. Horseshoe games in the backyard, building a water fountain, transplanting vines. All the things we meant to do that are not going to happen this year.
God grant us the extreme honor of living to see another one, another chance to get it right.
"The harvest is past, the summer has ended, and we are not saved." Jeremiah 8:20