Poetry Sunday

We're down to the last two days of the month. August is traditionally the hottest month here in NoVa where I live, and as it winds down we always look forward to the more moderate temperatures of September and the coming of fall. This poem by David Budbill speaks to the passing of August ...

Toward the End of August

by David Budbill

Toward the end of August I begin to dream about fall, how
this place will empty of people, the air will get cold and
leaves begin to turn. Everything will quiet down, everything
will become a skeleton of its summer self. Toward

the end of August I get nostalgic for what's to come, for
that quiet time, time alone, peace and stillness, calm, all
those things the summer doesn't have. The woodshed is
already full, the kindling's in, the last of the garden soon

will be harvested, and then there will be nothing left to do
but watch fall play itself out, the earth freeze, winter come.

Have a good day and enjoy the rest of your weekend. Soon enough, we'll be complaining about the cold and snow.

More thoughts coming.

Bilbo