August? —Impossible
yesterday
walking
deep in myself
in a kind of sweet
melancholy
the sound of a curled
oak leaf woke me
as it skittered across
my path on small, dry feet
into the pond
my eye followed
and saw beyond
the black-green water weed
along the shore
the reflection
of trees already bare.
Summer had gone
while my thoughts
were elsewhere
I carried
because of the wind
my broad-brimmed
hat in my hand
“It is filled with
sky-longing,” I thought
and so I looked up
into the over-arching blue
beyond the thin clouds
born again into the world
of things, no longer
just in the thought of things