counted the days, minutes, thunderheads brewing each afternoon
breath held before each downpour
more today, please
knowing it again wouldn’t be too long before we’re filled with dust
a few final blooms from what’s marked as summer
though September boils
(and to forget every year, was it this hot, this late?)
now we’re certain every year the calendar will push further towards October
chiltepin like an only indication of respite, waiting on their crimson
fewer buds than before
autumn further away, winter never comes
but the passiflora grew longer, fireworks of blooms
close your eyes and think: in days to come we’ll all again survive on nopales
burn them for the cattle
and the water bill’s too high

nickle-and-dimed out of seasons to come
at least for now we can feast on watermelon rinds and purslane
let what’s to come be gentle, for us all