It is past mid-August, and the
year, measured in flowers, is turning.
The foxgloves
gone, they blackened quickly, followed the iris, that
followed the garlic out
of season.
Now that fireweed floods the
roadsides with carnivals of colour,
the bonfires
of montbretia
are raging
gloriously out of control
and swallows
have
become
skittish, flying broken circles about the house,
we
enter the season of apples, pears turning red, plums purpling.
Yearly,
I get this feeling of sadness as though programmed into the cycle;
it’s not the passing of
beauty; beauty just changes its cloak; it’s
time
running away with something
that I can never quite identify.
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