To see the Summer Sky
Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie –
True Poems flee–
                            — Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), American poet

August.  Most of our social demands start winding down.  No more graduation parties, softball games or weddings.  Finally, just maybe, a Sunday to hang out, read a book and let the kids get gloriously dirty playing outside till after dark . . . then . . . wham!  Back to school.  It’s already happened in some parts of the country.

I just want to know: Summer, where are you going?

A Willful Girl
Summer is a dancing flirt.
She throws loud parties and long naps
while crickets and frogs wink from the sill.
 
Summer got lost yesterday.
She forgot her candle, and left
us so many mosquitoes to kill.
 
Summer is forgetting us?
She took the wool blanket last night
and left us in snormonious chill.
 
Summer is moving away.
She took down her lacy curtains
and left the sun to burnish the hill.
 
Summer is saying good-bye.
But as she walks away, I know
she’ll drop her crumbs like Jack and Jill.
 
(oops.  like Hansel and Gretel.)
                                     
                                             –poetgranny
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