End of August

End of August and the butterfly bushes are

Living up to their name—skippers and swallowtails

Mixed with a moth and a few interloping bees,

But never mind—there’s bloom enough for

Everyone. The clouds are scudding a little

South of east, riding what passes for a cold

Front this time of year, and that wind behind them

Feels fresh and clean and a little fall, like a swig

Of Indian summer, enough to make you thirsty

For the -bers ahead. But not just yet.

Let summer—the real thing—play itself out,

Squash still coming in, okra straining for

The sun. Eliot said there will be time.

But let’s turn the tense and say there is time.

I trust this breeze in this moment more than

All the might-be breezes in the might-be years

That might be measured out . . . and might not.

Here, right here, is time, bending the grass

Beneath its blue weight, articulating the angle

Of wings against the sky, passing through us

Like a stranger, like a friend, like a thief.

8/30/2022