In August when the sun has started to travel south, its rays fall longingly over the drunken trees. Summer is like a lover departing when he realizes the situation can’t go on forever. Too much growth and heat would ruin this part of the world. He knows he must depart, but his heart is breaking. A wistful morning mist rises from the lake, blinding the sky’s eyes to the forest’s worst failings. The open spaces beneath the canopy smell of old leaves. Grasshoppers gossip in golden grasses along the lane. “He’s going now,” they whisper. “We’ll have our heyday now!” No one wants to imagine what will become of the land when August finally closes the gate and drifts beyond the hill. They don’t appreciate his light and warmth. Everyone has been too busy carousing to notice his disenchantment. August was the best companion we ever had.
Uah, speechless!
ReplyDeleteThis brought tears to my eyes.
Need to think about it a bit. Thanks, Van.
Ah Pippa, thank you.
ReplyDeleteI have a hard time imagining August as spring in your part of the world. The very word resonates with summer's last long rays of sun.
That makes me smile! August sees the last, reluctant presence of the winter here, winds gusting and tearing old leaves from the trees.
ReplyDeleteBut come September ... ah! Pure blossom-petalled bliss. (Tomorrow is Spring Day, in fact.)
It seems your writing corner is having a very positive effect, combined with the squares, of course. =)
Combined with having recently moved to this place, which provides lots of space for creativity, and a close walk to several favourite downtown writing hangouts. I have been writing a lot. I seem to have arrived in one of life's sweet spots.
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