Song of Summer’s End
And so summer sank down to autumn,
Like Sunday into a Monday morning.
Aware of the metaphor like the new
Breeze that blows this time of year.
Everything begins earlier: the streets clearing,
The light illuminating front porches,
Retreating to the pillow to finish that chapter,
The moons tug-of-war with the sun.
Our eyes adjust to the dark, like our
Body’s clock to our new schedule,
Our clothes to our clientele,
Trading our choice of books for theirs.
The morning cup of coffee seems more
Imperative now than ever, clear-headed
Lazy mornings will now be spent stressing
Looking for keys or a matching sock.
Give me my August back, with campfires
And summer flames roaring at peak heat.
Give me my August, with blue horizons over
Mountaintops, and the lilacs still blooming with hope.
Auden said, “Time will say nothing but I told you so,”
Yet we still cheat on logic with our faith.
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