by Eric Rosenbloom
The season’s maturity is summer’s wane,
A mellowing of early exuberance
Yet grandeur of a calm confidence,
The small sweet fruit on the raspberry cane.
The crickets save their energy for love calls,
And modestly brilliant flowers shine
Atop the rich-leaved patient stalks that line
The edges of fields and fences and old stalls.
The rodents never forget that summers end
And now in the shade of the august haze
They rest a while these satisfied yet anxious days
To wonder how this winter each will fend.
Settled in our cushions while gazing at the stars,
My hand in yours, the crickets’ hum is ours.