Late Summer

It has been beautiful, late August, full moon

a million crickets following

a million fireflies in June, 

a million May peepers. Immersed

in insect, amphibian cycles, I am a mammal, drugged, 

crossing the road, car approaching

fast, unnoticed.

I would choose to die in late summer.

Why? 

So that my wife would have autumn, intense, 

to grieve by, 

snowy bandages with which to bind the wound, 

and spring to reawaken into.

Summer to remember that she's loved.