There needs to be a ritual
for clipping the last basil
for the last batch of pesto
for inhaling that last ephemeral blast of slower days
as the blender grinds
like last rites for the summer
a funeral
here in mid-September
something to comfort us
amid this foreign rigid schedule
and the last ripe tomato
lingering on the windowsill
something to remind us
all this homework
will come to an end
and we will play once again in the sunshine
yes we will
just taste it
Said Another Way 
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