The August day is generously warm, it’s
The persistent wind I dislike, it has a pale
Coolness of something that quickly passed
Before I sensed it and will be lost forever

There might be an Indian summer in late
September, a flurry of activity, a feeling
Of recapturing spent youth, an illusion
That fall and winter will not come my way

If only the wind would drop to a whisper,
I don’t mind the heat I’ll swim in a stream
Which has its nascent in hazy memories
Of summers that used to last much longer.