The Last Summer
 
These waves are seagulls,
scouring shores for scraps.
 
I press a seashell to my ear,
 
and nestle in the beach.
The surf inscribes a message
 
in the driftwood and the sand.
Your sun-bleached
 
photographs float from my bag, like feathers
on the wind. I desperately grasp pictures of
 
the way we were beside the coast.
 
Your woven bracelet on my wrist. I can’t remember
the sharp-edged rocks or foamy seaweed
 
as my linen towel softly dips in ends
 
of tidal pools,
clouding in my eyes, and grasses shake and shiver.
 
When we met again, the tides were frozen.
 
In a life where seasons
did not ebb and flow,
we never changed,
but this is summer’s end.

Stephanie DuPont

If you have any thoughts about this poem, Stephanie DuPont  would be pleased to hear them