As a once-mighty maritime republic
kneels slowly down to meet the distant drums,
its Turkish sash and slippers all in tatters,
and to genteel decay at last succumbs,
so summer ends. Fat pears drop from the branches
to be snatched up by squirrels, while the dying
sun shines with sickly ardor, dampening
skin under white lace collars. I am trying
to love the endings, not just the beginnings—
to love the cool dew and the dark warm grass,
the song’s last lingering note, the closing door,
the goodbye at the station. All things pass:
yes, all. Yet still my stubborn heart rebels
against a life spent babbling farewells.