Crickets of August intone the seasonal shift,
In their winged syncopation
their portent clear in quiet recognition—
Of a bare, perceptible turning.
Light thins at the edges,
the warmth once poured over days
now pools into fewer hours.

They sigh their first faint warning
Of days drifting shorter,
their chorus a lament the heart senses
before the mind perceives
A tender ache stirring
At the early glimmer of season’s end—
duskiness rising,
unwelcome, unbidden.

Crickets of August vibrate the waning,
The longer lean of shadow
Droning a mournful dissonance
into heart and soul—
the dimming joy
as sunsets edge forward,
unyielding, unremitting.

Oh, lengthen the season.
Oh, stretch the days
Prolong the moments
Hold the warmth, the sun—
do not be undone.
I am not ready
for the draining of the light.

Alas,
the direction of time’s motion—
Unarrestable.
Still the heart protests,
fighting the quiet theft,
grieving the truth
that each summer lost
is time itself departing

Slow down the loosening thread
Foreshadowed by the cricket hymn
I am not ready
To let the season turn

Originally written: 8/7 -8/9/2025