Poem for August, Eschatology

Eschatology

Already August. 

Already the trumpets

have abandoned 

the vines,

leaving behind 

a thicket of green—

the top beams 

of the pergola

heavy with growth—

deep tangled growth

that shelters us 

from the determined heat

of August.

Resting there, 

it is easy to forget.

Elsewhere in the yard,

in delicate pink

and lilac voices,

the Rose of Sharon

still proclaims

sweet, sweet  

summertime.

On the back porch

thyme and basil, 

parsley and rosemary

still gambol 

in lush finery,

happily unaware 

that one by one,

the flowers 

are departing.

Already, it is August.