Thursday Poem - August

Summer sings its long song, and all the notes

are green. But there’s a click, somewhere in

the middle of the month, as we reach the

turning point, the apex, a Ferris wheel,

cars tipping and tilting over the top, and

we see September up ahead school and

schedules returning. And there’s the first

night you step outside and hear the

katydids arguing, six more weeks to frost,

and you know you can make it through to fall.

Dark now at eight, nights finally cooling off

for sleep, no more twisting in damp sheets,

hearing mosquitoes’ thirsty whines.

Lakes of chicory and Queen Anne’s

lace mirror the sky’s high cirrus.

Evenings grow chilly, time for old sweaters

and sweatpants, lying in the hammock
squinting to read in the quick-coming dusk.
A few fireflies punctuate the night’s black text,
and the moonlight is so thick, you could

swim in it until you reach the other side.

Barbara Crooker