Late August


Now the estival breeze in tune,

With slow heartbeats of the harvest moon,

Peeking out from under azure helm,

Forced by afternoon haze to underwhelm,

While the sun yawns yet,

Creeping shadows prepare to set,

And still I feel it,

O Me!


Time now an argent thread,

We all swim together–living and dead,

Cozened by hues of oranges and blues,

Fallen leaves bring the news,

And still I feel it,

O Me!


Thick, clean smoke wafts o’er hill

Umbel greener by the rill,

No sound yet,

All fowl set,

But it is not time.

Bark and moss a pillow,

Pipe made of willow,

Esoteric joy within,

And OH I feel it,

O Me!


O Them …

Look there and glare,

They chose nowhere,

While August chose everywhere,

Metal boxes and fey suits,

Maundering amuck They hear no flutes,

Spitting vitriol loud and clear,

A bombast there, a bombast here,

Hoary trees turn away their ears,

But still I feel it,

Oh, I feel it.


Pity Them.


The finite wind blows,

But there all in rows,

Stand hollow scarecrows,

Gleaming eyes black and blind,

Now mine close in kind,

But still I see what They cannot,

Still I hear what Their ears rot,

Still I feel it,

O Me!

O glorious estival Me!