Some days in August there’s a summer hum
Of distant outboard motors, or a plane
Relentlessly pursuing a puffed cloud,
Echoes of past revelers, and then some
More silent moments, full of what’s to come –
Waves I will see crash shores, cold driving rain,
Fast traffic on the highway; droning, loud,
Insistent in its unrelenting thrum –
The acquiescent sere, last drooping mum.
It’s then I ask if summer can explain
Or lift from everything the brittle shroud
Which now has fallen on it. Still, in sum,
I see the cartwheel of the seasons roll
Know they are but the backdrop for the whole.