The seasons don’t follow our calendar.
They have one of their own. In theirs,
it’s not here one day, gone the next.
It’s more like a spiraling flow, the ending
of one song blending into the next,
changing its tone, introducing a new theme.
A note here and there, a phrase,
a fragrance, a measure of unexpected
heat or cold alerts you if you are awake
to such things. Here, in late July,
the tree of heaven is showing off
thick clumps of rosy, ripening seeds
and the corn is tall in the fields.