Evening Poem, August 29, 2014

Late Summer, Late Afternoon

 

The green trees

The blue sky

The red apples hanging

The white cloud floating

The crimson bloom

The yellow leaf

The white wall

The silver fence

All bright in the sun

They’d all sweat if they could

 

 

Late summer

Late afternoon

Not a bird in the wide sky

The far-away hum of a mower

Nothing moving but the creeping shadow across the lawn

The drooping boughs are still as in a photograph

As if motion was foreign to this world

Their shade dappling the trunks and great branches

And the sun-bleached power-pole beneath

White glare on the glossy leaves of the black oak

One cicada ratchets, another answers

but does not answer a second time.

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