August

True to its name, Sunday
has always seemed full
of gold eternal light.

Almost always tranquil
unhurried and calm,
a refuge from the world.

But Sunday evening
you feel pressed against
the brutal wall of endings.

All is quiet still but
you can feel the dread
chill draft of clamor beyond.

August is the Sunday evening
of summer.  The shelter of July
once gone will not return again.

In the bright yellow blaze
if you squint you can see
snowflakes falling on your hands.

Perspiring, I shiver.


Photo:  Kathy Bauer Photography.