All endings are destined.
The grasses on the hillsides
go golden in the distances
between us, announce 
summer even as they foretell 
its end. Holding your hand now
like holding your hand then,
when I again forget the promise
to remember this lesson of loss—
but the first thing a songbird does 
when the night ends is sing, so 
I held the night less tightly
and then a young deer 
walked past the oak, 
delicate and slow, 
wary and aware.
But her eyes
passed through me
as if I’m not 
there.