Goldenrod wears its yellowest best —
Redweed by the fence, a crimson fire.
And from the hot field’s farthest edge,
We hear the crickets’ crackling sound.

Wild blue asters still shine and unfold.
Clematis climbs up and kisses the air.
Poppies flaunt their bright, gaudy heads
Wind rustles through the ripening grain.

Thistledown scatters far across the field.
The sun pours down its scorching beams.
Blackberry vines bend with their weight.
Full, wild hops sway in a languid breeze.

Summer months — some too hot, too heavy,
Slip so quickly through our fingers and toes.
We hope old hearts and homes have warmed.
Autumn colors start to paint the trees, again.

August leaves us, then, with an odd, deepening
Ache: the one that augurs colder, harder earth.

. . . . .

Susan Powers Bourne
After Harriet M. Winslow