The approach of evening throws the day’s mysteries

Into more shadow.

Summer almost over

Petals fall piecemeal

A spectral drift of flowers.

A pink petal falls into a spider’s web,

Nestles beside the mummified blackberries,

The ancient blackberries

Together, monstrous decibels of the dead,

Immortality on display

Calling on the line.

From one side they catch the light and pulse,

Kid it isn’t over;

But I know where age spots riddle my skin

Where lines crosshatch my face:

I shall not make a shrine of this short life,

I shall not dwell on what was not or could/should have been.

Nor linger over what was, what is, what might –