At this last hour of the night,
of the last hour of another mimicking week,
of the last week of this american summer,
I ponder about this unusual rhythms of season,
where all seasons have glided into a monotone pastel,
the sad tragic tenor that has engulfed us all,
I want to grasp and hold on to all I got
of this last weekend of my beloved american summer,
let me do something eventful, full of beans
so this makes its way into one of those memories
hike the talk, jog the parkways, walk the errands,
bike the summersweet lanes, loststream terraces,
and yes, the winterlake courts and windypine drives can wait,
wake up before the sun rises from its slumber, catch it unawares,
let the tennis ball give the sweet spot its warmest hug ever,
all this and more, just one more time to celebrate,
as I mug this all up, the imponderables cast a glance,
is this all worth planning, when summer of next year,
might be just the same or the summer of yore, or worse,
the pall that has descended on us all, post-covid19,
has made us contemplate this rite called ‘life’, once more.

It has made us realize that nothing lasts,
except the eternal within ourselves,
the relationships we treasure and nurture.

Longer the struggle and its aftermath,
stronger is the realization, the morning after
if a carnage as big as world war two
is the deterrent needed to stop another world war,
praying, a calamity as grave as covid-19,
will help mankind come closer as a species again.