Summer in CinCity

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At Summer's End


by John Engels



Early August, and the young butternut

is already dropping its leaves, the nuts

thud and ring on the tin roof,



the squirrels are everywhere.

Such richness! It means something to them

that this tree should seem so eager



to finish its business.

The voice softens, and word becomes air

the moment it is spoken. You finger the limp leaves.



Precisely to the degree that you have loved something:

a house, a woman, a bird, this tree, anything at all,

you are punished by time.



Like the tree,

I take myself by surprise.

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Hey, thanks for your thoughts and your time:>)

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