The shawl of summer’s abandon is worn long.
Arena lilies weep, though we rejoice;
And the honeyed trellis whispers a warm song
In its soft voice.
The scented warmth, it falls from a bright sky;
Impatient rose hearts burst from their stirred peace
As if their restless romance could just die
Of the pure bliss.
Theirs is the last confession of warm hearts,
The summer’s swan song. Listen with great care,
For since late August they’ve be torn apart
By waiting there:
“Too cruel,” they cry in silence: “Too cruel
Is this wonder; and above, such a fierce sky.
A heartache blue commands its vast blue rule.
Help us, please, to die.”
This is the last confession of warm hearts:
Near trees, it drifts with thoughts in dappled air.
It was late August they were torn apart:
I’m waiting there.
This is another of my summery Sapphic odes. The rhythm is just the right side of melancholic, and every time I re-read it I find myself lulled into a sort of mournful drowsiness. But I do have that effect on people.