Our favorite fireworks were the weeping willows,

gold glitter bending like branches in the sky, 

white skeletons of spider trails against that blue

hue reserved for 9 pm, the green that crackled

as we sat lame-limbed on beach towels, their eclectic patterns 

swallowed by the dark. 

July, peak of summer’s flame, dwindled thereafter.

From beer my uncles swayed

as the breeze gave way to August, that cranberry cocktail

of nostalgia and dread for those back-to-school 

Crayola commercials and all else that seems

to say we’re behind, time is ticking, 

and fireworks are fleeting.