Late Summer’s Sun
Late summer’s sun has baked the grass to brown.
The days grow shorter with each passing day,
Soon, autumn’s chill will make the leaves fall down.
All of this aching beauty will decay.
And yet I love the shadows’ slanting trace,
The once green grain gone golden in its rows,
And how I love the lines etched in your face.
It’s funny, as love ripens how it grows.
The number of our days we do not know.
No sleeper knows if he will ever wake.
So come, let’s join above, between, below.
My dear, let’s cause our fragile clay to quake.
Let us make love as if it’s our last go.
Let us embrace like dawn will never break.
NOTES: It’s not really late summer yet, but it feels like it. It has been hot and dry, giving us the sense of late August when July hasn’t even ended.
The seasons seen to come and go more quickly of late. Perhaps I’m paying closer attention. Perhaps I realize more summers now lie behind me than still ahead.
Something in the air caused me to pull this sonnet out of the vault today. I snapped the photo on my late afternoon walk.
Ah! Midsummer sun.
Blonde girl walking a black dog.
All downhill from here.
NOTES: It’s become a bit of a tradition to post this when I sense summer has peaked and is beginning to slip away.
Crow all you want, cock.
You can’t make the sun pierce through
this late autumn gloom.
Notes: I often stay at a bed & breakfast high on a hill on the Kitsap Peninsula. To the east are the Cascades. To the west are the Olympics. When you can see them, it’s spectacular.
This time of year, however, they are usually hidden by the fog and clouds.
The hosts keep chickens to produce eggs for the breakfast part of the business. This is not a sure thing, however. The coyotes are thick in the woods. We’ve had a bumper crop of rabbits this year, so the coyotes seem to be leaving the chickens alone.
Last year, however, the farmer lost his entire brood to a bald eagle. Our proud national bird is so plentiful out here in the Pacific Northwest that they’ve become a bit of a pest. For a couple of days after the massacre, I saw the eagle perched on a tall tree looming over the henhouse, hoping the farmer would make a quick replacement.
He repopulated the henhouse with baby chicks, and redesigned the pen to be eagle-proof. So far this year, we’ve had a steady supply of eggs.
I don’t think I’ve seen
so many blues, greens, blue-greens,
or green-blues — ever.