Here we go again.
Toward the End of August
by David Budbill
Toward the end of August, I begin to dream about fall,
How this place will empty of people, the air will get cold and
leaves begin to turn. Everything will quiet down,
everything will become a skeleton of its summer self.
Toward the end of August, I get nostalgic for what’s to come,
for that quiet time, time alone, peace and stillness,
calm, all those things the summer doesn’t have.
The woodshed is already full, the kindling’s in,
the last of the garden soon will be harvested,
and then there will be nothing left to do
but watch fall play itself out,
the earth freeze, winter come.
Toward the End of August
by David Budbill
Toward the end of August, I begin to dream about fall,
How this place will empty of people, the air will get cold and
leaves begin to turn. Everything will quiet down,
everything will become a skeleton of its summer self.
Toward the end of August, I get nostalgic for what’s to come,
for that quiet time, time alone, peace and stillness,
calm, all those things the summer doesn’t have.
The woodshed is already full, the kindling’s in,
the last of the garden soon will be harvested,
and then there will be nothing left to do
but watch fall play itself out,
the earth freeze, winter come.
