Scrooging on Summer (A July Tale)

Summer is lost on me
with its long
laborious days
of horrid heat
and getting hotter
Whatever isn’t
liquified
drowns in torrents of
warm water vomited from
dark angry skies and
were it not for fresh
corn tomatoes honey
and cucumbers
I would gladly
leave it behind
Damn its scathing
hot eye
peeling my skin
My clothes never dry
The grey catbird that
frequents my deck rail
understands
Loudly crying like a
wet diapered child
for Fall to come
and change this
soggy swaddle

Seasonal Lover

She finally arrives
Breezing into
the room in her
flowing
windswept
dress
Hair
a mess,
refusing
to address
my inquiries
as to why
she arrived
not quite
a fortnight
behind
and before I
can speak my mind
she wraps herself
around me
So delightfully
fresh I forget
about time
Everything
is suddenly fine
The wait is over
“Welcome back,
October”

It’s a Wednesday in September

And the leaves thinning
now like hair in the
September of a man’s days
Finally weary of
summer’s heavy-handed
advances they call to
Fall – and give
themselves to her
Pirouettes
Whispering cannonades
of bright colors
Shrapnel of harmless
confetti conveyed away
to a far away place
by some Divine grace
Nothing taken for the trip
but a whole and simple faith
A sublime state
few mortals attain
We kick against the breeze
Fight the natural Fall
Far too evolved
to leave
as the leaves
But there’s no hurry
We had today,
didn’t we?
And every given day
fairly dripping
with poetry

Slapdash Soiree (or A Collection of Random Scribbles in One Act)

What do you do
with a funk when
it settles
on you
like funks do
and the world
is a rocket
racing away
It can’t wait
Nope
or so
the little man said
who runs through my head
starting fires
And already
the first heralds
of Fall are
in the trees
Rasping
Scraping
summer
from the earth
in thin layers
while they hope
for a pardon
from Winter’s
Marshal October
who’s just now
rounding around
the mountains
on his way
to town
And all I’ve
never known
and left undone
is buried in
the ground
breathlessly
waiting
the sound
of hooves

Out-of-Season

Four leaves were shed
lazily
in front of me
as I made my way to
Front Royal
today
but they
were all wrong
these leaves

did not tumble
as dust from summer’s
broad shouldered
shrugs
rather
they spiraled,
pirouetted
in the gentle
dance of death
that belongs
to Fall
alone
and I was
undone
by this
brazen
display of
misplaced
melancholy
arriving
not quite a
fortnight
into July
on this
long drive
and my heart
skipped,
gasped,
grasped
at that
missing thing
I can never
define
as the miles
ticked by