I’m not sure if this is a poem. But it feels like one? Lmk if I should change anything to make it count! Or if it’s beyond saving lol

It was an August day at my grandmother's house. The air carried the perfumed scent of her summer roses. The sun beamed off of the water in the canal, blinding me as I tried to scoop crabs from the side of the dock I grew up jumping from. I didn't care. I clung to my final moments of childhood just as tightly as the crabs held on to the dock's wall. I was just as easily removed.

Rays of light washed over me with a sweetly intoxicating comfort that only summer seems to give. I knew I was in a moment I'd miss for the rest of my life. I moved a little slower but it still passed.

Sometimes, if the air feels a certain kind of heavy, I can remember her voice and the way it used to call my name. Why do the flowers wait until they're almost gone to give us the sweetest blooms? Why do we cut them knowing they won’t last?