Late August

We sat out on the terrace, feeling, slowly,

the Summer afternoon cool into evening –

the sun, slipping away, noticing then,

the sky, you had thought looked just like cotton candy.

We chatted about the Mexican sunflowers;

how the harsh Winter would kill them all,

make brittle their leaves, chew away

the buds that had failed to thrive.

And there was silence afterward – disallowing

time for you to notice how the conversation

had left me shifty. You had held my hand, then,

in a tighter grip, as we waited

for the meatloaf, inside the oven,

to finish its bake, allowing ourselves, in the while,

even if for a few quiet minutes, to just be

in each other’s company.