It is always August.
If time would stop, it would stand still
Under the dog star.
Winter lingers, but all of that season is labor
Boots, gloves, scarves and coats
Off and on, on and off
Snow shovels and firewood
What shivering creature stops to contemplate a grey sky?
We spend March and April longing for June
And in May we are ecstatic and the days pass
Almost without our knowing
July is full swing
Long-planned travel, hours in the car
Hurry up and rest, hurry up and enjoy
Spring is bursting birth
and fall, dramatic death
But August is stasis
and we sit in the warm evening
by the still-warm water
and think it will always be this way,
it should always be this way.
There is no rush into August
Nothing is planned there
We sleep late
And sit outside all night
Who works or worries then?
There is no rush away from August
No one wants to hear that first bell.