Nov 142013
Listen, mes amis, 
For the change to summer.
Dry pines are bristling.
Christmas is forgotten.

April's incipient blossom
Lays rotted.
The canvas hammock smiles,
Pinned up and greatly weighted.

One by one,
The summer stars
Pink and rayed
Enter eventide elated.

And the frisson that one feels
Barefoot under the stars (one by one 
Left uncounted)
Is not exactly unrelated.

Winter's interiors and castles, 
Warmer rooms and whiter views,
Pile up discarded 
In the summer mind

And so summer returns to life
Between extremes--
Neither dewy Spring 
Nor stiff December--

Rotund orator of repeated suns,
Halcyon mind increased and crested,
Profoundest player of cards,
Purveyor of flippant fun.

Summer comes, itself
Extreme in sunshine,
Raconteur of revels, afternoon pomps 
Of tea, sloe gin fizzes

Piling up and up--
As neglected dusts infect
Minutest corners
Of a sleepy eye.

But listen, too, mes amis, 
At how, afar off, 
Beyond acutest blues,
The apt ear hears, inherently hears,

Autumn's tom-tom.

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