Drones for the Late Summer
And the cool broke through the shaking heat
when the leave were the deepest green
the black gum beginning to burn
consumed by flame in fortnight
(I’ve always wanted to use fortnight
in a poem, and now I have).
Wind carrying the cider mill
in the cool that breaks the heat
from sun-burnt deep skin beat
sun-turned tan chest, less we forgot
the summer fraught with lessons
wrought with a heated hammer of
love and hate and the things that make
up an existence of growth and unknowing
seen as the shaking stark light
though sun-staring bright eyes.
speak with many voices,
beginning with few,
quickly accumulating until all voices
with an excited wispy voice,
until the fall arrives.