by Midge Goldberg

Late August and the geese are practising—
They seem to know September’s on its way.
A few leaves drop, tomatoes race to ripen,
Somehow it turns to fall in just one day.

Fruit gathers on the ground, a feast for bees;
Deepening, the sky moves backwards out of sight.
The sun slants, and summer’s honed away,
No glimmer of return in that sharp light.

All these creatures readying to leave:
They die then are replaced, or reappear.
Just dying once seems easier to bear—
It’s spring that drags the process out each year.


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