So subtly August turns us from summer to fall,
sliding the sun from its zenith, inching
the pool of night onto closer shores
almost without notice, as if it were a dream.
There on the hill, the first blush of crimson
creeps onto the maple leaves. The young geese
grow restless as their first migration nears.
The tillers of the land start the rituals of harvest.
Fragrances we haven’t known for a year drift
from kitchen doorways, smelling like home.
And we who dreamed summer would stretch on
find that it’s changed now, its green losing its sheen.
Oh, so subtly August turns us. So deftly she ushers us on.