On the last day of summer, the sun wouldn’t set.
The season didn’t want to end
so it kept us in waiting. We stewed in our sweat.
We wondered how the earth could bend
the laws of nature to its will
and keep the planet standing still.
Time lagged on as the sun burned so ominously
we were afraid to go outside.
Were the seasons still passing when nominally
it was still summer? All the dried
up trees and shriveled flowers sobbed
for loss of beauty time had robbed
them of callously. Daylight was constant and never
abating; air was thick. It reeked
of the festering smell of decaying, lush fruits
that lay upon the parched, cracked, bleak
terrain. We prayed for autumn, rain,
and night—but none of those things came.
—By Morgan Ome