Summer Journal (Take 2)
The fireflies rise like dust from a dirt road,
like hot ash from an untended fire.
June is contraband, ill-gotten time
to be squandered like prize money.
A springlike chill last night.
The breeze this morning flushes
mist to the woods edge where
it is banished by the eight oclock sun.
In Kitty Hawk the beach homes roost
imperiously among the trees.
They think they own the place.
The wax myrtles that line the streets
provide no shade. The Joe Bell flowers
are hot: red and yellow and orange.
The days are cooler when the breeze
comes from the sea. Late afternoons
a train of clouds beyond the offing
hauls silently Northeast. It is
Summer riding the rails, stealing
away, getting out of Dodge.
The rain falls in dark pillars on
the mainland town across the sound.
It is worlds end in silent film.
At the sunset bar and deck we watch
and get ourselves another round.
No rain, no rain. The grass has stopped
growing. The bird song ends mid-morning
and the back yards are a blinding stillness.
Just the Black-eyed Susans tracking the clouds
in all their pomp and circumstance.
July it seems is half-way somewhere.
Summer is a closer. The
carotene is in the leaves, a
November snow in times gleaming eye.
Noone home on Paul Mill Road.
America is at the beach.
The sidewalks burn. The only sound
is cicadas singing each to each.
The grass is brown. the weeds are green.
The red crepe myrtles bare it all.
The mosquitoes lay low in the heat.
A cricket starts the song of Fall.
The gutters run with floating leaves.
The long awaited rain has come.
We bide our time beneath an awning.
The waiting now is for the sun.
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Comments about this poem (Summer Journal (Take 2) by Don Tiedemann )
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