I.
it is august. the
dog-day cicada reminds
me that some songs are
meant to be heard just
one month each year. in two weeks,
new voices will join
the chorus, voices
familiar yet less welcome,
insistent yet less
compelling: less song
than drone, an onslaught of id,
thoughtless and unchecked.
august always checks
me, a small, persistent voice
above the holy
song of summer, whole
verses that caution: do not
believe all that you
hear. all that you can
do, sometimes, is sing for as
long as the music
plays. winter is long.
august, now -- autumn begins
artificially
early, and the art
of keeping the summer song
near enough during
august-absent months
demands memory absent
The sight of the students returing to campus in the fall often fills me with the hope of a new, fresh start. I perhaps should stop being such a romantic, or at least, such a slow learner: that all-too-common sensation of choking on disappointment as the bile rises typically comes to me shortly after the first set of mid-term exams.
ReplyDeleteGreta, I am slow to respond, but thank you! You have captured the paradox of August perfectly!
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