Durga, 11

summer is falling apart
like a wobbly bicycle;
maple keys chop the
warm air into slices;
acorns batter the earth
to exhaustion;
the whole hemisphere
is tired of zucchini 
and the squirrels
like corporate executives
are robbing the earth
blind of its fruit. 
Canada presses
its heavy brow
against us and everywhere
the water is beginning
to envy stone and
silence. I am thinking
of you again Durga;
how you put a finger
to your black lips 
and tucked me into
a bed of cool white
hills, then slid
against my bones 
with a long sigh and kisses. 
I was not too young
to feel sad, but
there is a kind of
respect in surrender;
sometimes what
keeps me warm has nothing
to do with the air.
​