A poem for August

Cool Morning

Mid August, even so, a faint hint, gift
of autumn momentarily - a sweet,
soft breeze. With slender branches trees entreat
a sift of foliage. Their fingers lift.
Then half a dozen paper leaves adrift
blow in and dance round summer sandalled feet,
though brief, their restlessness another fleeting
sign of imminent and massive shift.
The season’s on the very cusp. We’ll see
the great sun climb and midday will be hot
but morning now, as evening later, spares
relentless sultriness, humidity
with temperate caress. Long shadowed autumn’s
in the wings. The old earth cools, prepares.

Dorothy Pope