Poetry for an August Evening

These bursting yellow pears I hold,
In burning hands so lately cold,
My quiet autumn day confound;
I feel my fingers pressing round
In quick delight – old thoughts renew…
Ah, who’s to say when summer’s through?
~ E. F. Weisslitz

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August

August rushes by like desert rainfall;
A flood of frenzied upheaval,
Expected,
But still catching me unprepared.
Like a matchflame,
Bursting on the scene,
Heat and haze of crimson sunsets.
Like a dream
Of moon and dark barely recalled,
A moment,
Shadows caught in a blink.
Like a quick kiss;
One wishes for more
But it suddenly turns to leave,
Dragging summer away.

~ Elizabeth Maua Taylor

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August is an ending mark, a semi-colon in my year, when one thought starts almost as another is ending. I want to drink in the summer, stuff my mouth full of the last warm days and the bright summer sunshine. I want to feast before it melts in its own heat and evaporates into only memory.

The summer never seems as long as should be in this Northern clime. The brevity of time breathes on my neck, and makes me shiver.