Late

Spilling its sugary fish eyes
glossy over the dry garden—
summer’s last tomato, split
down the side like a piñata,
the last almost survivor
of August, the sun still
struggling to hold on,
and my daughter looks
at it in my hand, leaking
tart and sweet over my fingers.
Sometimes we arrive
at just the right moment,
an orange ocean sunset
or sea turtles boiling
pre dawn from their nest,
while other times,
the phones go unanswered
children grow strong
and cut their hair alone
or people you love
die without you
holding them in your hands,
so the summer light ends
and the tomato vines
wither into skeletons
while the seeds we missed
writhe and swell
like memories and regrets
returning when the light
hits them just so.