Late August

Odd over ripe days of late August-
Heat drifts by in waves to be washed out
In the darkening dusk.
The sultry night cools minute by minute
As the earth tilts towards the autumnal equinox.

We sit on the porch eating peaches,
The last fruit of the orchard
Now swept of debris.
Only the wasps and bees remain
Still searching for that last drop
Of sweet succulent summer.

*revised*

dragons on a summers day

Dragonfly garden 5-18-14

it is still July but the season has changed
and rabbits have had their way with my garden
raping and pillaging as they went
a castle over run
and I am left a distressed damsel
after the dragon has lost interest
and flown away
leaving only singed bones
of caladiums and daisies

such is a fairy tale from a summer afternoon
when the air has softened
and summers heat has turned down a notch
and the only dragons in the garden
fly on gossamer wings
schooling thru the soon to be autumn
air

illusions

Golden Dawn

A cloud on a hot July day
gives the illusion of coolness in its shadow
but it never drops rain
or the temperature
or even a breeze to evaporate the sweat
as it trickles.

Across the brittle landscape, rabbits pant in the heat
as the asphalt rises in the yeast of the sun
to bloom sticky and black.

Writhing along the road, dust devils
stir up depressions where the small brown sparrows bathe.
Its hot
and the song of heat swells
in the throats of cicadas. Or is it wings
or appendages that rasp the tune?

Shimmering pale blue water rises
on the road. The heats playing oasis
in this desert of an afternoon. A mirage,
an illusion, a forfeiture of the senses,
summers sleight of hand. A cloud
on a hot July day.

un-August

June evening 2 2013

The garden has gone feral,
briar and bind weed rise
over violets rampant with deep green hearts-
swords of hardy dandelions
wave in triumph.

Wild with heavy shadow and leaf,
the woods spill
across the wet summer meadow.
Late summer grasses
wave verdant and strong
as young men in springtime.

Hayfields green.
ready for third harvest-
sighs of scythes
echo across the meadow.

Summers Ebb

dove

The sharp retort of the jays cries
strike the air,
his grief too much for the cedars to bear.
What greater woe is there
than summers ebb?
Yellowing leaves, spent and melancholy,
rain down
as though weeping,
for their passing will soon be forgotten
in winters bare and spare air.
The elegies of wing and wind-
the sighing trees sorrow
in the mourning doves song
of summers passing.