Every year, an old friend visits, Knocking on the morning door Before the chickens go out. Just for a day, Maybe two.
The old rivers of light and heat, Much alive, cry In their thirst for night, With the promises of fading evenings liquored In the scent of blackberries, Gone stale and forgotten in the hot afternoon.
This crooked summer: Like wilting vines on a broken arbor, Motionless, as they cling fast To the memories of serpentine edens.
Sam A. Flanagan
This article appears in Burger Week 2024.