The dichotomy between endless summer fun—
Chlorine-scented towels piled precariously on the laundry room floor,
Still damp from hours spent wading and kicking against man-made waves—
And Target runs for #2 pencils and brightly colored lunch boxes,
Carpool lines, the resetting of alarm clocks, full calendars.
We enter in, clinging to the fringes of summer with gripped hands,
Nostalgic for the days we are still living in.
We are worn out from the thick heat, cheeks stained pink from 
Too many hours spent in the sun.
Somewhere between July and September, we step off the elevator
Of long, drawn-out days and enter a frenzied pace 
Set by the world around us. 
Unbeknownst to us, we have officially entered the race; 
If summer was a stroll, we are now in a sprint toward fall.
We are over-caffeinated and over-scheduled. 
In a fit of impatience, we replace our closet full of floral dresses for wool sweaters
And begin eying the pumpkins and candles the craft stores display months too early,
Hoping to will cooler days into existence by sheer force.
But it isn’t fall and it isn’t quite summer either.
It’s something else entirely.
The lingering heat is only a facade,
But more like a costume that doesn’t quite fit
As we awkwardly wade our way through the most perplexing month of the year.
We’re in the in-between—no longer summer vacation but not yet the holidays,
Groggy-eyed and undisciplined, yet hopeful and ready for something new
We enter in. 
Perhaps there’s purpose, even here, in the passing through.