afternoon poem, July 15, 2016




Get out from behind the window

And touch summer

You see it from your chair

In your room

As a placid pond

But you cannot hear its sound

Rushing like a mountain stream


Wade into the water

Sweat under the sun

Smell the cut grass

And the new-mown hay

Stand in the warm rain

Run through the morning haze


In the blink of an eye

These days will be

Discarded calendar pages

You will look at the dates

All ninety of them

And think again

Of all you promised yourself

And regret that all has passed

Without a taste.



Copyright 2016


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