It was some grim holiday for a while,
with the hammocks and the back porch,
and the sewing machine on the table,
quiet, like disaster sometimes is.
I wrote about roses.
I wrote about too soon sun.
We learned a new language
and spoke it not to be alone,
and we laughed sometimes
in spite, in spite.
We burned newspaper
over the bonfire.
We faked holidays,
then watched them pass.
We kept telling ourselves
there were still beautiful things.
We waited months for salvation
made up to soothe us,
like children hearing stories,
like doomsdayers in the bunker
at the end of the world.
I think we all thought
the seven month summer
might linger longer.
I think we all thought
the seven month summer
might go on and on
and never end.
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