Brian’sPoems

A Matter of Perspective

This month of August,
it seems a little bit longer,
maybe hotter, too,
or at least more humid than July.

Lately the sun willingly surrenders the sky
to angry clouds and torrential rains,
while the ground drinks happily of all the water.
You can hear the corn growing taller,
and the mowing crews cussing and hustling.

There’s always something happening,
no matter what time of year.
The temperament of people consistently changes,
just as the Earth is forever turning and tilting.

More often now I’m noticing other humans,
and animals, and all the living things.
I’ve stopped worrying about remembering the day.
I don’t want to anticipate the seasons or
count the years.
Keeping track of life is a dubious privilege.
Real luxury is a cool day in August,
blue skies - an imaginarium full of clouds.

From where I sit summer seems to be fading.
Yet somewhere else, maybe in Australia,
in a town I cannot pronounce
there is a man my age.
We are rough reflections of each other,
and for him spring is just beginning...