Night Poem, July 24, 2015


           Waiting for August

The grey cloudstreaks on the sky

Are fading with the dull blue horizon

moment by moment into deep night


The corona from the town below, behind the distant trees

Is but a whisper against the enclosing darkness;

The chorus of night sounds

The locusts and cicadas and frogs and crickets

Ratchet and echo in perfect time

As if they are practiced and confident

As if this scene is their own, unchanging thing

As if by first frost

Only weeks away now

They shall not all have vanished

And the cold night be silent.


The yellow light from the porches and

Escaping from behind bedroom-window curtains

Brightens in relief as the last of the blue

Fades from the firmament

The distant highway sounds are faint, but persistent

As if time is theirs

As if, in time, they, too

Shall not fade from view

And then from memory

And the cold night be silent.


Copyright 2015

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