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Monday, August 2, 2010

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.

5 comments:

FDeF said...

How true the feeling of summer ending...but it seems more muted now in semi-retirement - the Sunday evenings and Augusts not so brutal an ending...On the other hand, if you think too hard on it, each evening is a brutal ending...but I don't want to go there just yet.

dave said...

Very eloquent, Russ - very true to my experience as well.

Doorman-Priest said...

Great poem!

Russ Manley said...

Thanks guys.

Sebastian said...

So nice. But summer is nto ending, not yet. We still have a month of lazy days for those who can afford it. And days of change and work for those who can't.

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