Original Poetry: "The Laylords of Summer"

They sit on the banks where a mighty river once flowed
and cry the tears of so many wrongs. Their bodies are
tanned, darkened to bronze, like taffy that flows in luxurious
waves. They stretch their already knowing forms to receive
the cool mist that rises.

They must extend further this year,
The end of a great satisfaction is near.

They relax in the felled patterns of lazy summer
wearing. Clothed, in the nonessentials, they lay beside
the other’s dream and speak of unkept treaties that
ravage the splendor where they once banked,
and speak in hushed tones that catch the air and fall on
silent ears.

They have seen the mighty river flow,
The mighty Colorado.

For a brief reminder, they imagine that the river rises:
that they can feel the flush of foam as it spews into the
treacherous ravines, leaving them awe inspired: so much
desired of the times when caution would move them back
up the banks. Now, they challenge what little is left of its
might.

If they return next season the river will be too low,
Destiny plays folly on their plans, takes bounty
on the dreams that flow.

Dark feet rub toes together to catch whatever it is,
before it is no more. They rush the moments of
simple pleasure: each outdoing the other in their
remembering. They touch, feel the ephemeral
wash that has caught them daydreaming.
They stretch for more.

This will be the last of the summers haunt,
beneath the towering wings that cover them
and pull together the shade. The last of something
that man has destroyed, that nature made.

Each holds back the tear that glazes from knowing
eyes. They put together their memories,
and signal,
their last goodbyes.