Late August

I feel the first caress of Autumn
in the early dark of August days

Late in the month 
before the surety of September

Tentative breezes powder my face
and tap my thinning hair, whitened with age

The desert sun by afternoon may leach
what passes for moisture in the air

But the spring and summer of my arc
have long passed in all but memory 

The approaching ages when my parents died
are as drum beats in a relentless band

And so I do a recital of laundry and dishes
as if in ritual for the very last time

My working husband sincerely thanks me
neither knowing the day I will be missed