End of Summer
Strange
It’s the last day of August
And unseasonably cool
The sky a soft endless blue,
A pool you could write on
With clouds like Ice Age continents
Seen from space,
Two planes lacing the open
Seas between them with fading thread.
The light is brassy.
Individual objects seem preternaturally
Distinct like reflections in polished steel.
You could spend the rest of the day
On one single tree, its greens,
Its thousand hidden shadows,
Each leaf a thin slice of jade
Dancing with one several branches away.
I wish I hadn’t seen it.
It’s too much responsibility
For average men like me.
I’ll fail to depict it
Properly, let alone artfully,
Obscure it under an avalanche of wrong words.
(Even avalanche isn’t quite it)
I see now why some religions
Forbid its believers from saying
The quiet name of God out loud
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