Hold me, Grandmother,
 
for the long night is coming—
 
summer slips away.

 
 

Late-summer breakfast—
 
black coffee leaks from a crack
 
in my old white cup.

 
 

Late-summer heatwave—
 
I long for cooler weather
 
and cherry blossoms.

 
 

The summer mountains
 
seem to have no cares at all,
 
but I have many.

 
 
 

My new road atlas
 
waits for me to mark it up
 
for summer’s last trip.

 
 
 

Summer conundrum:
 
Do you need a season word
 
in every haiku?

 
 

Summer battlefield—
 
a soldier about to die
 
kisses a small cross.

 
 
 

Long summer journey—
 
even the distant mountains
 
are too close for me.

 
 

Long summer journey—
 
a mother keeps arguing
 
with her trans daughter.

 
 

In Old Havana
 
you grabbed my hand and we walked
 
through the summer streets.