It was as if the sunlight
felt a yearning for the summer
and all its frivolity
so that the rays fell
with a melancholy slant
as if recalling
that fine and careless rapture
of early June
the butterflies of July,
the cosmos and the goldfinches,
the sparrows and the pink lilies,
the amusing bee balm,
the strawberry hollyhocks,
it was as if it felt
and yearned with us
for the summer to last
and felt sad too
at the awful evanescence
at the wistful and inexorable
dance of Time