Indian Summer

Marking another unmarked shore, I ask
the sea to save me from some new despair.
Time will not wait for you to learn,
it answers; then, relenting, Listen. Look.
As if a soundless rain were falling,
pinpoints of silver sweep across grey waves.
Too fast to track, a dragonfly arcs and corners;
impulse, air, shape its rainbowed path.
After a mist-filled night that seemed to end it,
summer survives close to the heart of autumn.
A gold river reaches to where I walk,
recedes as I now swim towards a sun gaining
full heat near evening. There are no seasons,
it says; and then, There are so many.