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In August
~ Babette Deutsch ~
Heat urges secret odors
from the grass.
Blunting the edge of silence,
crickets shrill.
Wings veer: inane needles
of light, and pass.
Laced pools: the warm
wood-shadows ebb and fill.
The wind is casual,
loitering to crush
The sun upon his palate,
and to draw
Pungence from pine,
frank fragrances from brush,
Sucked up through thin grey boughs
as through a straw.
Moss-green, fern-green
and leaf and meadow-green
Are broken by the bare,
bone-colored roads,
Less moved by stirring air
than by unseen
Soft-footed ants
and meditative toads.
Summer is passing,
taking what she brings:
Green scents and sounds,
and quick ephemeral wings.
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