There is something about August and the late summer light,
The last of it that seems to carry the summer with it
From the intricate embroidery of Queen Anne's lace and forget-me-nots
That stitched the meadows where we once walked
Hand in hand, into the star studded skies of autumn,
Listening to the crickets singing their last love song in the grass.
In the lifting breeze, we hear the restlessness of the seasons,
The restlessness within ourselves,
And we know that this time and this place,
Beautiful as it was, will pass
And become another time and place
in the bittersweetness of passing moments,
Romance, friendships coming and going,
The complicated story that is life.
And we find ourselves picking the last of the roses
In our trying to hold onto them,
In our longing to stand still,
Looking up into a silver moon
That seems to hold the past, present and future
With all our memories and dreams
Looped together like the colors of a field at twilight,
As we watch a lover walking away
For the last time, and we walk back
Alone, picking a new path
Through the shadows of the restless trees.
August is when the leaves begin to turn,
As if by magic, making it seem like whole other world.
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Author Notes
This is really a pastoral romantic poem, very much in the style of Coleridge, a throw back to the romanticism of a simpler time, when poets used the symbolism of nature to articulate the emotions and experience of life. August is a time of change, when the hopes of spring fade into the hard facts of autumn, when summer loves meet the test of maturity, and the mysterious forces of change work their magic in nature and in our own lives. It is both a sad time, and a refreshing time. estory
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