He will miss
     the seasonal change,
     subtle as it will be:
     the first two waves of chill.

He will leave
      when humid air still knocks
      against skin like angry beads
      and the jasmine draws in
      its final bees for the year—

And will be gone
       while the oleander begin
       their hibernating droop
       and the hibiscus expose
       frameworks of thinning bones.

He will not know
      the needle’s drill into
      tame, unsuspecting flesh,
      or the restive landscape
      of waiting for results—

But will return
      in time to witness
      the expected conflagration:
      scarlet berries on the yaupon.

©Janet Lynn Davis

First published in Loch Raven Review, 2005.

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