Even now, A thin glow hovers over summer’s dying sky.
The clock chimes ten,
the pull is there:
tomorrow will be imperceptibly earlier than today
And the next day will check out just a wee bit sooner.
And so on.
We said our last goodbyes sometime the evening of June 26:
the latest sunset of the year.
It didn’t pass off in fireworks and cheers. In truth, the night before seemed grander: an open sky, first stars, and night herons,
Squawking from the inky darkness painted in twilight’s corners.
Sunset was a scant few seconds earlier that night.
With no hint of the big swing into winter commencing two days later.
But I digress,
It all began on June 14th,
When the sun broke the horizon at its earliest point.
As the coastal fog had not shown that night,
And birds sang loud, in a pre-dawn clamor,
Along with a rooster
Still in its coop.
Those 12 days of summer’s solstice,
Perhaps more magical in memories
Now that they are slipping away.
In the subtle agony of my machined throes:
hold on, rewind, see it again,
Like I missed something the first time through.
Like last year,
And the year before that.
And so on.
This slow fall long resumed. Gently pulled.
Through the staleness of what summer will become
Into the honeyed glory of Autumn, and winter,
Days gone meek,
Where mornings struggle just to raise a voice,
Resigned to a short, hopeless bridge between nights.
Forget that we should hold these times.
Turn, instead, so that we might fly on golden wings,
Above this great turning wheel.