Season of Reversals
August 1st, 8 p.m. and already the light is dim.
In the distance a dog barks, enamored of his echo, tail wagging,
sending a mixed message like the pale moths that press against the window, more from memory than madness.
Crickets drone a military tune while their cousins, the katydids, cackle with complaints.
Why do the white petunias tumbling from their pots on sticky vines stare with their milky eyes?
From seed they must have known that August brings the season of reversals.
Summer passes so quickly. If you enjoyed this poem, you might also enjoy these linked haiku, about the sundry sensations of summer.
