The Last Summer

Editor’s note: August comes on quickly, with notes of sadness as summer is passing away. I thought this poem captured it beautifully.

These Augusts hulk between such heat and heat
That even those who love the sun grow prickly.
And slick with sweat, the oldish stick to chairs.
They fan the fatting warmth away and say,
“I pray that cooler weather comes again”
(Their prayers are insincere).

They watch a kindergartner play, her forehead
Red and feet all bit by ants. The shade
Cannot sustain her games. She stumbles in
The sun, unbothered by the rays that make
Her elders fret and beckon her to come
Inside to eat and drink.

But if they stopped to think on summers past,
Recalling water’s best when warmed in hoses,
And “time for lunch” means plums in muddy hands,
And chips and mustard go to sandy beaches
As offering to tadpoles, crabs, and skeeters,
They’d recognize that now

These Augusts have a heartbeat we forget.
Cicadas singing, flip-flops, push-pops, rain—
One day she will outgrow it all, retreating
To where air’s iced, and summer cannot join.
Don’t make her wipe her feet as she comes in;
The little girl is living.

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

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Havalah Peirce

Havalah Ruth Peirce lives with her family in the tropics of Texas. She is a graduate of Saint Constantine College, a former Fine Arts teacher, and will pursue her M.A. in Humanities at Ralston College this fall. A student of Classical Christian thought, she seeks to glorify God in her constant quest for the Good life. In her free time, Havalah enjoys drawing, swimming, scrapbooking, and pondering the meaning of that infamous C. S. Lewis quote, "How monotonously alike all the great tyrants and conquerors have been; how gloriously different are the saints."

Latest posts by Havalah Peirce (see all)

• The Last Summer - August 3, 2026
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