A Pantoum
The cicadas shriek an end to August.
Morning is dark; grown shorter the evening.
Our thoughts turn to autumn, just as they must,
For the heat of our youth is now leaving.
Morning is dark; grows shorter the evening
And with each dusk comes one more nightly storm,
For the heat of our youth is now leaving.
Yet, that’s the progression that is the norm.
And with each dusk comes one more nightly storm,
As if the rain represents our grieving.
Yet, that’s the progression that is the norm.
Giving up our summer’s a hard cleaving.
As if the rain represents our grieving,
All thunder struck and quick lightning flash.
Giving up our summer’s a hard cleaving
The days when lost youth and coming age clash.
All thunder struck and quick lightning flash,
Our thoughts turn to autumn, just as they must.
The days when lost youth and coming age clash.
The cicadas shriek an end to August.
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