Final time, car in park, take in the scenic before again befriending the biting frost.
If these months were a sundial, they nearly lost the trace of time.
On most days watch the mannerism of light march across a field
In shadow’s form towards the lake a small stride’s distance off.
Relief, infrequent, though a storm or two does brew, blowing with haste; Canadian
Geese in safety elsewhere; no lovers immersed in themselves lazily laying
About; equanimity speaks loudest upon a tempest’s zenith.
Heat waves blend together like a mirage in a sweltering desert.
Meaning therein slowly disappears into a primeval archetype,
Nearly forgotten, yet kept safe in modernity; It is a feat of long books
Concerning themselves with the eternal cares of the earth both near and afar.
Even those, words, they blur together so, and heavy eyelids
Cast aside the temporal to dream of personal fancies; Under the cooling
Care of a deciduous in maturity sleep shortens afternoons. There, summer
Love is as real as is dreamt before burning away like an early morning mist.
When fireflies light the eve and crickets sing their symphony, such an
Hour hearkens a melancholy farewell. These few late hours, after the
Indian’s but vapored reawakening, should be best spent in
Silent drives under dark skies away from the romanced summer.
Sun bleached hair and near sun burned tan, achievements small
But observations many, yes, knowledge drew nigh another step.
History’s greatest magician is he whose age encroaches gently,
Spanning his summer days as if there were many thousands to live in one.