August already: time to see summer before it sinks. Beneath bountiful branches I stand and watch the sunlight soak through green and breathing leaves. All around, like fog in the trees, alarm clocks ring beneath male cicada wings. And look: a current of slick, black ants flows down the dark drive. Sometimes I stop to hear the waterfall gushing from my window fan, and sometimes I want to pour it all into words, lingering to love what can’t be kept.
Copyright 2000 by Brian Dean Powers
Published in the 2002 Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar