morning coffee
the tips of the trees
a bit more red
end of summer —
in my son’s room
I try on his shoes
from my bathing suit
water drips
ants scramble
end of summer —
only a few chips of polish
left on her toenails
too old now
to feel bad about
feeling good
new passport
I calculate my age
at its expiration
summer downpour —
ghosts of a thousand cranes
on the pavement
gentle summer night
my daughter’s sobs, the sound
of trains passing
amid fireflies
his evening walks
shorter now
after our swim
we talk, lingering
in the deep end