Here it comes, that slow, sweet kiss. That luscious ache. That dance that leaves you breathless.

September is a fleeting lover. You know in your bones that she’ll leave you wanting, but you’re here for it. Agony and ecstasy are intertwined.

The light has washed everything golden. In the garden, long-tailed skippers flit from ironweed to aster; butterfly pea to goldenrod; late-summer bloomers to early autumn wildflowers. Never mind that the zinnias are fading. Coneflower skeletons whisper of what’s to come.

At the forest edge, muscadine vines drip with fruit, dark and plump. You pluck one, sun-warmed and pungent, and hold it in your palm. Can you feel the wild pulse of summer? Allow it to sync with your own beating heart.

You don’t yet know that the whippoorwill has departed for warmer climes; that the mantis has released her mass of eggs and, in her final act as mother, swaddled them in a papier-mâché womb. The bees are humming tunes of natural wonders, and you’ve anchored yourself here in this sun-soaked moment.

Indulge your senses. Press the warm grape to your eager lips. Sink your teeth into its tart, leathery skin. Taste the bitter punch, the earthy musk, the pleasant burst of sugary-sweetness.

When you open your eyes — no, you hadn’t realized you’d closed them — a tidal wave of swallows casts a shadow on the quiet earth. This is the moment you remember: summer is slipping from sight. 

You reach for another muscadine, willing time to slow. Let the bitter punch linger as summer fades. Let the juicy pulp sweeten the sudden ache. Let it all be true at once.