Thus ends the last summer my father saw.
No one comes back, yet
Seasons turn as if a turning door.
His last days fell full, he could no more
Caste his kindly net.
Thus ends the last summer my father saw.
Mid-autumn’s sun can still burn raw,
But longer shadows set.
Seasons turn as if a turning door.
Hoar winter numbs hearts, stuns the core,
The callous wind throws forth her frozen net.
Thus ends the last summer my father saw.
Spring returns, so say platitudes of yore,
But things get farther set.
Seasons turn as if a turning door.
Death strikes us dumb, grief mixed with awe,
And makes pretensions smaller yet;
Thus ends the last summer my father saw.
Seasons turn as if a turning door.