After three other seasons,
summer is a gift.
After summer, we might die.
In winter, the eggs and spinach will be lost.
We will be left with lentils and crackers,
and our toes for walking.
Put on your keen hat, my dear,
tell your mother we might be aliens.
I’m watching, girl, so make it brief.
It’s time to wander,
to walk to the edge of the river together,
with the dark tribe of just you and me.