Late August

Late  August yearns for Fall.

Orange gold dreams carry like song on rustling breeze.

Stories not quite heard but deeply

remembered hold tight, disturb

today’s warm pleasure with a slow excitement.

Dear old friend, abiding connection

to Earth’s magic,

safely ecstatic within this familial whirlwind,

this life defined by change.  Who am I  but foreground

actor on this recursive stage, poet and sage —

but only as my role in this world play.

Wandering mindscapes, withering days,

darkness in ascendance.  Summer releases its musk to dissipate

in long evening sky.

Every day deserves its acknowledging ritual,

notes in a chain that love us, random beings,

to meaning.